T-shirts and trams: a further exploration of Spain’s little absurdities

The lack of logic in Spain doesn’t stop at the layout and inner workings of traffic-light systems, or at the fact that they serve tortilla in bread. (Not even just tortilla – everything in a tapas bar comes in, or at least with, bread, throwing my pre-arrival plan to stick to a healthy Mediterranean diet out the window a long, long time ago.)

No – it certainly doesn’t stop there. I recently had to buy ibuprofen from the farmacía here, after running out of my supplies from Tesco that I’d brought from home. The capsules from the Tesco packet contain 200mg. The capsules from the pharmacy in Alcala are 600mg. Each. How easy do you want to make it to accidentally overdose? The idea is that you’re supposed to half the tablets and take half at any one time – and here is where that big, empty space in Spain where logic and common-sense should take pride of place becomes glaringly obvious – why not just packet the tablets in such a way that you can take one at a time without having to worry about the fact that you may have just overloaded your body with a dangerous excess of chemicals?

Another example: I went shopping for hot pink tights last week (to dress up for an 80s party, not for regular personal use). Sure enough, I found them without much of a problem, but when I was looking for my size I was informed by the shop assistant that they were talla única (one size fits all). Okay, fine – that makes some sense taking into account the material tights are made from. However, I then went into another shop, found a T-shirt I liked and was informed that these were talla única as well. What?! How on earth can the same sized T-shirt fit everyone? It’s simply physically impossible. Take, for example, Cheryl Cole and Beth Ditto. If anyone can squeeze Beth Ditto into Ms. Cole’s shirts then I shall take it back – but for now I really can’t see that this concept works terribly well.

Clearly, this want of logic has filtered through into my own lifestyle, predominantly into my sleep pattern, which was pretty bad in Leeds but has now turned into something else. Despite it being an established tradition in Spain, I have no need for the siesta – waking up at three or four in the afternoon most days pretty much eliminates its need. To be fair to myself, this sleeping pattern does suit the Spanish lifestyle rather well in Spain, as I am up and ready in time for the shops to re-open and, more importantly, I have enough energy to get me through the nights out, which only come to a close for us at about five in the morning. I have set the bar high – the latest time I’ve got up here is 7.30 in the evening (although this was due to a particularly horrendous hangover) and the latest/earliest (?) I’ve got to sleep is 9.30am (obviously by getting up late, I am unable to sleep until the early hours of the morning). It’s a depressing thing to hear peoples’ blinds opening so that they can start their day or go to work when you’ve not caught a wink.

The final example, at least for now, is when I visited the city of Toledo (which is about half an hour away from Madrid by train) with my mum in October. The city is beautiful, its main attraction being that it is almost completely surrounded by water. However, it is also situated on very hilly terrain. Which is all well and good – apart from when you want to take the tour bus, or in this case, the tour tram. Why they decided that a tram, of all types of transportation, was a good idea for a city built on steep hills I shall never understand. On our return, this poor tram loaded with tourists was forced to struggle up a ridiculously steep hill in order to get back to the main plaza. There were several points during this hazardous (albeit ultimately successful) hill-climbing attempt where I genuinely thought that we were going to roll backwards, which reminded me of my equally ridiculous driving test. I’ve lived in the hilly area of High Wycombe all my life, so I mastered hill-starts and the like fairly early on in my driving career. However, no amount of practicing could have prepared me for what was presented to me on the day of my test: the most enormous man I have ever seen in my life appeared from the test centre and wobbled his way towards my car, and slowly it sunk in that this was my driving test instructor. Ordinarily, his size wouldn’t have mattered, but due to a gearbox problem with my driving instructor’s car I was having to take the test in my own car – a blue Cinquecento with an engine size of less than one litre (if you have ever watched The Inbetweeners you will be able to sympathise with the awkwardness of the ensuing situation). Although the problems began with him having to physically squeeze himself into the passenger seat, they certainly didn’t end there – every time I changed gear I accidentally rammed my fist into his leg, which was extruding in a most alluring manner over the edge of the seat. Despite not knowing whether to apologise each time (apologising would probably have brought more attention to the protruding limb than the accidental punching), we carried on quite nicely until I reached Marlow Hill, the steep hill that takes you out of High Wycombe and into the abyss of Handy Cross roundabout. With the microscopic engine size, my car sometimes struggled to carry the weight of my mum and I on practice drives, so you can imagine the strain it experienced up the town’s steepest hill with this new, well-padded passenger. Even with my foot flat on the accelerator and the engine screaming for mercy, it only managed about 20mph at most up the slope, and typically the traffic lights changed half-way, meaning that I had to stop. Again, this could have been cause for just a simple hill start, but in a car in which the handbrake didn’t exactly work, there was a slightly bigger problem, especially when the other passenger was packing a few (or several hundred) extra pounds. Luckily, clutch control got me through, but there were a few scary moments in which we could have rolled backwards if I’d have lost concentration for just one second. This is the reason why I am not generally impressed by hills. I specifically didn’t write down the University of Exeter as one of my choices after visiting the campus due to the amount of hills (the course content didn’t get a look in). But of all the hills I’ve laid eyes on, the use being made of the one in Toledo took the biscuit – it defies logic, even by Spanish standards.

What surprised me the most is the fact that we did actually return from the excursion. Taking a ride in the death tram is not relaxing or touristy in any way – firstly, after doing the tour within the city itself, the tram joined the main road, which was definitely an A-road and certainly more similar to a motorway than I would have liked, with the intention of showing us the city’s surroundings. Secondly, because obviously the tram was travelling pretty slowly in comparison to the rest of the traffic on this road (although for what it was, it was surprisingly zippy), we got tailgated a lot. This, added to almost falling out of the tram when going uphill, made sitting at the back end of the tram (and facing outwards) very uncomfortable indeed. Luckily, there was a pole to my right supporting the tram’s roof which I made very regular use of to save myself from death-by-tram. The final straw was that after suffering all this, it was impossible to get any decent photos – which was the whole point – because the driver refused to slow down at any point on the journey even when we hit an obvious tourist viewpoint. Thanks driver for my blurry bridges and cathedrals, what wonderful memory aids they shall make...

The Spanish personality: starring the cleaning lady

The Spanish are not known for being shy.

The episode which got me thinking further about this generally-acknowledged fact occurred on Saturday, and consisted of one of a group of what looked like nine or ten-year-old boys slapping my 21-year old flatmate on the backside as they walked past us in the street. This is a perfect example of the rather brash attitude exhibited by some (I would like to stress definitely not all) of the Spaniards I have happened to come across during my time here. I was reminded of another incident which took place soon after our arrival at our new flat: not having been offered the orange sticker with printed names on it that every other flat’s post box is adorned with, we decided to make our own. Shreds of paper, many different coloured pens and about ten minutes later, we had our label and proudly stuck it to our letter-box. However, after walking past it the next day on our way out of the building, we realised that we were walking across none less than a crime scene – the label had gone. Confused, and utterly curious, we began an investigative search and to our horror, discovered its remains in the waste paper bin, only centimetres from the letter-box vicinity. On further inspection, we realised that it hadn’t just been picked off and placed into the bin – no, it had been screwed up viciously into a ball and thrown in an apparent fit of inexplicable anger. After only having lived in the building for about a week, who could we possibly have distressed that much?
We do have our suspicions: the most likely culprit in our opinion is the bin-lady, in the foyer, with the rubber gloves. Our reasoning behind this is that within the first few days of living here, we accidentally messed with her ‘system’ – it seems that putting rubbish bags outside the front door a second before the allocated time of 19.30 is not the way forward. We’ve also annoyed her since by putting out an apparently overly-offensive rubbish bag, because when we opened the door the next morning, she’d placed it onto our doormat so that we physically had to step over it to leave the house. And according to her, a few days ago one of our rubbish bags stained the floor (although we can’t see anything). So she’d definitely have the motive, it’s just whether she could see through such a villainy. After the incidents following that which caused the post box crime, I am awaiting a similar vengeful scandal. However, whatever she decides to do, a repeat of post box vandalism is out of the question because, after tenderly unscrewing the crushed little label, we stuck it back on but to the inside of the box rather than the outside where it is clearly too exposed to angry cleaners. I eagerly await the day when in bin-world, we do something so outrageous that we catch her with her fingers trapped in the slot, desperately clawing at the label that’s just out of reach... This honestly seems to be as far as crime goes in Alcala. The police force here are in desperate need of something to do: I can’t say that I’ve actually ever seen a policeman doing any work – they always seem to be congregating on the streets in groups of about four of five having a chat, or at most, shepherding traffic when the lights are out of order. The one time we’ve actually seen something happen – a woman was having a full-on screaming match with her boyfriend just opposite our block of flats – the police got far too excited and sent out no less than six cars, sirens blaring, to calm down the situation.

The Spanish have also exhibited their unreserved attitude in a more caring way, for example I got stopped on the street wearing just a T-shirt several times in November by middle-aged and old folk asking me: Are you not cold dressed like that? With them all bundling up in coats, scarves and gloves the moment the temperature drops below 20°C, it must be an odd sight to them to see someone strolling down the street wearing just one layer. I quite like the fact that they stop me – it feels like they care about your wellbeing – but also I think it’s just a natural curiosity that, unlike the British, they have no qualms about satisfying. For me and my fellow British friends here, a November day in Spain is equivalent to a day in May in England. For several days at the end of November, it was 24°C and there have been some beautiful blue and cloudless skies even at the beginning of this month – making it difficult to believe that there has been a foot of snow in Leeds and that it is Christmas in less than two weeks.

Katy Perry, Linkin Park and how not to cook a pizza: the MTV awards in Madrid

Having been told that my blogs so far have been somewhat negative, I’ve decided to write about my best day so far in Spain in an attempt to lighten the tone!

November 7^th 2010. The day Madrid hosted the MTV EMA awards, and the day I got to see one of my favourite bands, the one and only Linkin Park. The day didn’t get off to a great start – almost freezing to death having opted to start our Madrid adventure with a picnic, in a park, in a grassy spot with very little tree cover, on a windy day, in November wasn’t ideal. Ordering drinks afterwards in a busy pub with no spare chairs probably wasn’t too sensible either – we ended up taking up a considerable chunk of floor space, resulting in many bemused looks and several irritated Spaniards, who found getting from the door to the bar a little bit more like parting the red sea than they would have liked. However, very shortly we heard the beginnings of a familiar song...Linkin Park had started playing two hours ahead of schedule! I have literally never run so fast in my life as I did to get from the pub to that stage. Despite having no breath left in me whatsoever and feeling as though I might die (the most exercise I have done since being here is taking the three flights of stairs to and from my flat and walking the 15 minutes to uni four times a week – and two out of four of those days when I have particularly stressful classes which I still find difficult to understand, I ‘treat’ myself to a McDonalds on the way home – a sort of consolation prize: “Congratulations, your Spanish hasn’t improved at all this week!”) I somehow found the energy to bounce up and down and gasp out the lyrics. This was, however, only the sound check, and it was a further two hours before the first act of the evening came onstage. The event was kicked off by 30 Seconds to Mars, which was cool and somewhat unreal considering I’d seen a film with frontman Jared Leto playing the protagonist just a few days before. Katy Perry was the next to grace the stage, and she was fantastic. To complement her song ‘Firework’, there was a mini-fireworks display (didn’t see that coming at all), which was awesome and made up for the lack of Bonfire Night in Spain.

Holidays and events are so different here. I’ve already explained the beautiful concept of the puente – we’ve just had another one which resulted in a six-day weekend. Although this is obviously brilliant, it is strange missing out on some of England’s traditions, for example Bonfire Night, but also the more sombre events such as Remembrance Day – it felt almost wrong to go about my day without wearing a poppy, or without doing a collective two minute silence. Christmas is also quite a different affair in Spain compared to England. The most noticeable difference is that children believe in the three Wise Men instead of Father Christmas: they arrive in Spain on January 6^th, the date that the Wise Men are said to have given gifts to Jesus. Children all over Spain leave their shoes out on their balconies, in the hope that in the morning they will be filled with gifts. This is all well and good, but I think that England is definitely the place to be at Christmas: for a start, shoes have nothing on stockings. I mean, there are only so many presents you can cram into a shoe. If I had grown up in Spain – and I’m sure that Spanish children have found many other ways to cheat this sorry system – you would not have caught me leaving out my favourite ballet pumps, or a school shoe – no, my balcony would have been adorned with the much more spacious Ugg or wellington boot. Now who’s the wise one... I suppose at least the concept of the three Wise Men is slightly more believable than England’s Father Christmas. British children are encouraged to believe that once a year, a fat and merry old man, driven across the country by flying reindeers, squeezes himself down their chimney or lets himself into their house (it’s worrying that so many kids believe in an idea that defies not only the laws of physics but also those of plain common sense); whereas Spanish children, by contrast, are told that the three Wise Men arrive in Spain, one on horseback, one on a camel and one on an elephant –so much more logical than flying reindeers (I do understand that Santa’s sleigh being pulled by eagles or bats wouldn’t have quite the same effect, but still, teaching kids that an animal can fly when it clearly can’t is just inciting ignorance) – and that they leave presents on balconies, no breaking into anyone’s house involved. 

Anyway – back to the MTV awards. After five hours of waiting in the crowd, Linkin Park finally made their appearance. We all went crazy, especially when they started playing songs from their older albums. The one problem was that I was with a friend of mine, about a foot taller than me, who ended up standing right in front of me for almost their entire set! I was NOT happy –on the plus side however, a tall friend does make an excellent leaning post when one is wobbling around on one’s tiptoes in a desperate attempt to catch any sort of glimpse of one’s favourite band. Furthermore, courtesy of him I now also have some great photos. 

The gig came to an end after the crowd had successfully requested two encores; and after I managed to get my legs to work again after having been stood in the same place for six hours, we headed off to find food and ended up, quite predictably, in McDonalds. It’s genuinely not through any fault of our own that we go there so often – cooking for ourselves in Spain has been, shall we say an experience – not only because we can only use either the oven or the hob at one particular time, but also because of the interesting culinary techniques employed by the Spanish. Frozen rice and vegetables in a packet, for example – the usual way to cook these items would be to cover them in boiling water in a pan and leave them on the hob for 10 minutes. Right? Not according to Spain – here, the packets advise you to fry the aforementioned items in oil. Fry rice in oil? Despite finding the whole idea very strange, we were at the same time very curious to test out this novel method of rice-cooking. Sadly the results of our little experiment were very unsatisfactory and begged the question as to why these packets are still on sale – having poured half the packet into the frying pan, we ended up with a mound of vegetables and about three grains of rice. The rest had stuck fast to the bottom of the pan, where it had burnt to produce a crispy black mess which had to soak in the sink for an entire night before we could even start to clean it off. All in all, probably not ideal.

The other thing that baffles me in this country is that ovens do not seem to be used with much frequency. I know several people on their Erasmus year here who are living in a flat without an oven – thankfully not us – I don’t know what we’d do without our chicken nuggets and chips when we stagger in drunk at six in the morning. I actually stayed with a Spanish family in Madrid over the summer while I was doing an internship, and although there were 11 people in the flat, I was the only person to use the oven in the entire month that I lived there. On one memorable evening, I put a pizza in the oven, in the usual way, i.e. on the baking tray at about 200°C. I noticed that one of the other girls living in the flat was watching me with a worried look on her face. Eventually she piped up, telling me that 200°C was definitely too high and that 200°C really is very hot. Well, yes, it is an oven – they don’t design them to go up to that temperature for no reason... I tried to explain it was quite normal but she clearly didn’t trust this strange English girl and her intentions, because when I returned to the kitchen five minutes later, she’d turned it down to 100°C. She also made the very unhelpful suggestion of putting the pizza on a plate before placing it on the baking tray in the oven. I was genuinely stunned that she, older than me, didn’t have the first idea about how to use one of the, for us, most basic kitchen appliances.

It’s not just this poor Spanish girl who has problems in the kitchen. A few weeks ago, we were invited to an international food day, or something along those lines: the idea was to cook and bring something that represented your country. In our defence, we had only been told a couple of hours before the event, although we probably could have done better than we did...after inspecting the fridge we decided that the most usable item was the big pile of Frankfurters, with which we made the delicacy known as hot-dogs. Although clearly these are of American origin, we justified it with the fact that it is at least an English-speaking country. Pudding consisted of strawberry and cream flavoured sweets which we found on an impromptu trip to the petrol station on our way – representing Wimbledon, of course, which we thought was quite an inspired idea (unfortunately, we were the only ones). New Year’s resolution: learn to cook and not to bring shame upon my country...

Road rage and dead hedgehogs

Okay, so clearly I built my expectations up too much – the Christmas market was really quite disappointing, mainly due to the fact that it consisted of stalls that all sold exactly the same things. I suppose it could be seen as a very innovative queue-cutting technique: if the queue is too big at one stall, fear not, as the same item can be found at the next stall just inches to your left/right.

But now, onto my main point – driving. European drivers are stereotypically awful: they supposedly have no respect for pedestrians, drive too fast and adhere to road signs on worryingly few occasions. This stereotype exists because it is true. I have never seen such appalling driving in my life: red lights seem to be taken more as friendly advice than a rule – kind of like when someone suggests to you that maybe you shouldn’t illegally download that movie; or that you should maybe buy a parking ticket even if you are just stopping for 15 minutes...only this time the advice is slightly more pressing. As in, you should probably stop at this red light so that you don’t run over a human being. 

It is not only traffic lights that suffer being ignored, but also road signs, for example zebra crossings. This side of the ocean, crossing the road is no longer just about getting to the other side – it is also about remaining in existence (I exaggerate not). Whether this is Spain’s attitude towards natural selection, or simply a lack of concern for their fellow human beings, I shall never know. Either way, people strolling about in Spanish cities by foot have to be super careful. Forget singing hedgehogs – the pedestrians here need far more than a light-hearted reminder of the green cross code. Maybe even an advert simply telling them not to cross any roads. Ever.

Even looking both ways – one of the lines from the British hedgehog road-safety campaign – won’t cut it. In Spain, very often both lanes of traffic appear to have stopped, but then suddenly one lane of traffic rev up their engines and away they go. This exemplifies the strange Spanish concept of stopping the traffic on one side of the road while the other side goes; something that I have yet to understand the logic of, but also something that I have picked up on very quickly, mainly due to several close shaves!

“When it’s clear, nothing’s to fear.” Another line from the beloved hedgehogs – and yet another lie. Applied to Spain, the song should go as follows: “When it’s clear, presume that a vehicle will come zooming up the road out of nowhere and expect you to run very fast; if you don’t, they will slow down but only at the very last second and while honking their horn either incessantly or in one long and very loud beep, almost giving you a heart attack and morbidly embarrassing you by drawing the attention of the whole street.”

Ultimately, what I’m saying is: when in Spain, don’t trust the hedgehogs! Following their own advice, they would definitely end up as road kill. There is one good thing about the roads in Spain, however, and that is that when the green man pops up letting you know that it is ‘safe’ to cross, a countdown begins, showing you how long you have left before the lights go green and the carnage on the road starts all over again. (He also looks like he’s absolutely pegging it, which is quite fitting given what I’ve just been discussing.)

At the complete opposite end of the scale to driving, we have walking. The Spanish walk, or amble perhaps, is at the average speed of backwards. I would love to deposit a load of Londoners in the streets of Alcala and see what would happen. In my head they would get so angry – inwardly of course, as British people are far too polite to voice their rage – that one by one, they would implode. Or simply go mad. And understandably – who has the time these days to wander around like there’s nothing to do but smoke and eat tapas? Oh, wait. Still, drifting around like the un-dead should really be limited to when one is hung-over. 

I do have to say that, despite all this moaning, there are a couple of gems with regards to Spanish transport, the first one being double-decker trains, which are awesome, no further explanation required. The only disagreeable thing about the trains is the noise the closing doors make, which sounds like, although about twenty times louder than, the loudest alarm clock in the world. It makes travelling with a hangover headache a nightmare; and if you fancy a kip on the way into the city, forget it. On the other, more positive hand, you won’t find many people stuck in the doors: the sudden blast of noise is enough to make even the most idiotic person dive out of their way in an acute attack of fear. 

The second transport treasure Madrid has to offer is the metro system. At risk of sounding like an advert, the system is quick, easy to use, and just €1 to travel as far as you want or need to across the whole city. Although, some well-meaning advice: if you don’t have far to travel, walk. After taking roughly five escalators to get down into the underground system, feeling like you’ve reached the core of the earth, or more suitably based on the furnace-like feel the depths of hell, taking the metro and then another five escalators to return to earth’s surface, it is difficult to justify this means of transport for just one or two stops.

Strike? What strike? And Spanish 'fashion' ...bless them, they try...

The whole of Spain held its first general strike since 2002 on September 29. Anticipating marches in the streets and possible riots, we were all quite excited for this ‘momentous’ event (and for the day off uni and the chance to sleep in). However, nothing happened. Most classes were cancelled, the city seemed a bit quieter than usual, but apart from that, everything was fairly normal – some of the shops were even open. Although disappointed, after watching the news that evening, we were also somewhat relieved: in Barcelona police cars had been smashed and set on fire and it looked like World War Three had broken loose; in Alcala de Henares the teachers didn’t come to class and we got a day off – more reflective of a holiday than a strike.

Despite the general strike not working out quite as planned, something that is always on strike in Spain are the lights in restaurant bathrooms. Each cubicle has its own touch-sensitive pad which you use to activate the lights. So, obviously, when you first enter the pitch-black cubicle, you touch the pad, but then about twenty seconds later, the pesky thing times out and you are left fumbling around in the dark, wishing you’d taken more notice of exactly where this pad was. The first time this happens and you are left inexplicably in the obscurity with your jeans around your ankles is far from pleasant, but as with anything, you get used to it as time goes by and gradually it has developed into more of an inconvenience than a cause for alarm.

I dedicated my previous article to university life, so in this one I want to swing the focus towards life outside of uni. The other week, we enjoyed a luxurious five-day weekend, thanks to a little thing called puente. Tuesday was a national holiday, but the Spaniards (praise them) clearly don’t see the point of working on a Monday only to have the next day off. This, combined with the Friday we have off anyway and the usual weekend, added up to five wonderful days of socializing, fun, chilling out and exploring the city. Being girls, the first activity that sprung to mind was of course shopping, and being so close to Madrid, it was an offer hard to resist. We headed off to Gran Via which is close to Sol, the centre of the buzzing capital city. The staple Spanish fashion stores were there – Zara and Mango and the likes, as well as H&M – three stores within five minutes of each other in fact – which seems slightly excessive, not to mention illogical as all the clothes in each one are pretty much the same. Then again, logic doesn’t seem to be a strong point in Spain, a country whose tapas bars serve tortilla in a sandwich. Rather worryingly I am actually getting used to this, however one thing I need to accustom myself to before my second shopping trip are the European clothes sizes: in somewhat of an oversight I forgot to check my UK size against the European system and consequently ended up lugging all of my chosen items around the stores in two sizes, giving a literal meaning to the phrase shop ‘til you drop.

On the subject of clothes, I would like to add that despite the huge number of shops on offer in and around Madrid, the Spanish do not seem to make the most of them. In fact, walking down the street sometimes, it genuinely feels as though I’ve stepped back into the 90s, evidenced by the sad fact that many Spaniards still seem to think that jeans with a denim jacket is a good look. They also take a scarily obsessive liking to the colour red and can be frequently seen donning the brightest shades in a less than delightful shirt AND trouser combination.

Last month, however, the denim was placed into (hopefully) the back of their wardrobes for a few days while Alcala de Henares’ medieval market took over the town’s countless cobbled streets. The array of middle ages outfits was impressive, and with this added to the buzzing atmosphere it became clear that this annual event is something that Alcala is very proud of. It had everything – owls and birds of prey flying around the main plaza, pigs and other animals in cages (I only realised what these were for after walking past the spit-roast) and a huge variety of food and goods stalls. I’ve just found out that the Christmas market is due to start tomorrow and if the medieval one was anything to go by, the festive one is certainly set to be quite an experience.

Time Travel

Last week, I spent my Sunday evening sat in a field. The sun was setting, giving the sky a beautiful rose-tinted hue, a girl and her horse could be seen walking in the distance, the dust kicked up by its hooves shimmering in the sun’s glow, and someone started strumming on a guitar and singing. All in all a very pleasant evening activity. Until my flatmate decided to reintroduce us to grass-blowing. This very adult activity involves pulling up a piece of thick grass, holding it between your thumbs and blowing to produce a trumpet-like sound. I don’t know what the girl playing the guitar was least impressed with: our somewhat inferior knowledge of music or being drowned out by our grass trumpets. However, momentarily back in 1998, we sat there blowing quite happily on our grass until it started getting chilly and we started the walk home. A fun, simple evening, yet something I would never have thought about doing in Leeds.

As well as little things like this highlighting the contrast between Alcala and Leeds, the differences between the two universities are also vast. For instance, on asking the nice lady in the reprographics room where the printers were – there didn’t seem to be any in the computer rooms – she gave us a funny look and pointed towards the one, sole computer that looked almost discarded in the corner of the room. Apparently, apart from a few helpfully broken machines in another university building, that one computer is the only available place where the entire student body of the Arts Faculty can print out their lecture notes, seminar work and essays. Is it just me or does a printer:student ratio of 1:1050 seem a little absurd? I cannot even begin to imagine the carnage on essay deadline days. As well as this slight technical blip, the University does not seem to communicate with students via email, which is a strange concept after having been bombarded with the things for two years at Leeds. Here, when a lecture is cancelled, the entire class, having walked all the way into uni especially, is presented with a blasé note on the classroom door. Instead of jumping for joy as we would in Leeds and heading straight for the Terrace, here it is somewhat exasperating. The cityscape may replicate the medieval era, but in 2010, the technology doesn’t have to as well!

The classrooms, on the other hand, are nicely set out so that for the most part they are easy to find, other than the odd one or two that are tucked away round corners (clearly designed to confuse the Erasmus students as much as possible). There are also several staircases that seem to lead to different places each time I take them. So, with secret rooms and moving stairs, I find myself in a Spanish version of Hogwarts. Still, it makes a refreshing change from the stress of the Roger Stevens building. Classes have also been fairly interesting, in the sense that I make half a page of spread-out notes and half a page of doodles from a politics class that lasts an hour and a half. Good going – and it’s not just the classes taught in Spanish that present a problem. In the spirit of improving our Spanish as much as possible whilst here, we have all taken a module to do with the history of English-speaking countries, which is taught partially in English. The teacher, not impressed with us taking this module in the first place, expects us, as natives, to possess a working knowledge of English history dating back to the fifth century. Embarrassingly, and somewhat worryingly, we know less than some of the Spanish students in the class. For this module, we have also been told that we are expected to produce an essay, which obviously presents no problem for us as we’ve had essay skills drummed into us for years. However, according to our teacher, the Spanish first-years not only can’t write an essay but also cannot formulate their own opinion to incorporate into an essay. Therefore, this 2,000-word ‘essay’ (may I just add here that the announcement of this word limit drew gasps of horror from the Spaniards) may be written in a group of as many as six people and information can be copied and, in the teacher’s own words, ‘translated’ from the internet, i.e. this is very much a copy and paste job.

Although cobbling together an essay through copy and paste is brilliant and makes a relaxing change to the strict measures in Leeds, where we get penalised for putting a full stop in the wrong place in the footnotes, I am definitely looking forward to my return for my final year, even if just to be launched back into the 21^st century.

Culture Shock

I finished my last article by concluding that Alcala isn’t really that different to Leeds – and judging by the weather we’ve had some days (storms and torrential rain that floods the roads) I could verify this once again. I have even had to swap shorts and skirts for jeans on particularly chilly evenings. Sort it out, Spain! I complain, yet there have also been some gloriously sunny days where the temperature has hit 30 degrees Celsius and I have been able to don my sunglasses.

My sunglasses. Huge, tacky and providers of no UV protection whatsoever. This is what happens when you naively put your trust in free ‘gifts’ from magazines. Instead of, as the publication claimed, keeping me ‘cool’ in summer and within the realm of high fashion, the offensive item makes me stick out like a sore thumb among the Spaniards. Combined with the giant map I picked up from the tourist office on my second day, I may as well have been walking the streets of Alcala wearing a T-shirt bearing the word ‘Extranjero’ (foreigner).

Although my sunglasses are ridiculous, I became almost dependable on them during my first week here – I managed to contract conjunctivitis in my right eye after just four days in the country, which spread to my other eye shortly afterwards. Not particularly possessing the desire to bare my temporarily disfigured face in public, I took to wearing my sunnies solidly for three days – including inside shops and residence halls – which, although admittedly attracted some odd looks, also vastly improved my relationship with the previously despised item.

In the previous article, I avoided any explanation of Spanish culture in favour of describing the, quite frankly, mental nights out. Having lived here for over two weeks now, I feel I ought to expand slightly on this subject. The first things that come into peoples’ minds when quizzed on Spanish culture are typically: fiestas, bullfights, siestas and a relaxed, maybe even lazy, attitude. For me, the first culture shock was that all the shops shut at two o’clock in the afternoon for the traditional siesta, or a long and leisurely lunch. As students, we are only just waking up at that time. What to do? Get up early to go about our daily business? After staggering in at five o’clock that morning? Luckily, we are saved from this daunting thought as everything re-opens at five in the afternoon, and remains so until about nine in the evening.

Secondly, the Spanish are a very sociable people and it is considered rude to not say ‘hola’ and ‘hasta luego’ as you enter and leave a shop, or when you run into someone who lives in the same building as you (regardless of whether you know them or not). Not so much a culture shock as adopting a more friendly and open attitude, and leaving the stereotype that the British like to keep themselves to themselves. 

Thirdly, Sunday nights are buzzing. Whereas in Leeds, most people would perhaps be on the couch watching TV, catching up on some work or getting an early night in preparation for uni or work the next day, in Alcala the main plaza is brimming with people of all ages and a hubbub of activity.

 

Fourthly, the Spanish are far more relaxed than the British. I have already mentioned the liberal attitude of the bar staff towards alcohol, however, the police (of all officials) seem to share this attitude. When some people I know were ‘caught’ drinking on the street before hitting the clubs, the police informed them that they couldn’t consume alcohol there and suggested that they move to a park! Fantastic – that will really help to cut down on the rising levels of binge drinking in the country. There is, however, no point in debating this standpoint. As well as actually quite liking how chilled out everyone is here, I would never contemplate contradicting a Spanish policeman. A far cry from the stereotypical image of a British bobby, these beasts are fully armed, wear huge black boots and look like they are carved out of stone. Therefore, whatever these supernatural beings say must go – and if us getting tipsy in a park on sunny afternoons is what they want, well, who’s to complain.

Bienvenido a Alcala

Two weeks in Spain and I think the best way to describe them is like a rollercoaster – but definitely with more ups than downs.

Although admittedly not getting off to the best of starts – the taxi driver had difficulty finding my residence halls from the airport which consequently forced me to shell out €50 within the first half an hour of my being in the country – all I can say is bring on the Erasmus grant – it has steadily got better and better.

The city I am staying in for the duration of the year is called Alcala de Henares, and it is beautiful, full of Arabic and medieval buildings on which white storks choose to nest. On entering Alcala from Madrid, visitors are treated to a glimpse of the castle walls which enclose part of the city, and the weddings that seem to take place every Saturday in the centre’s stunning squares and winding cobbled streets only add to its fairytale charm.

Having found my way around with relative ease (surprising as I still get lost in Leeds city centre every so often, despite having lived there for two years), set up a current account (in very broken Spanish), got hold of a Spanish mobile and explored the university buildings, I am very much settled in. Finding a flat in the city centre with three other girls from Leeds has also helped, and despite its various flaws, namely the power cuts that occur if the washing machine and oven are on at the same time (God forbid – and an interesting experience if you happen to be in the shower at the time), the washing machine that leaves all of our clothes soaking wet even once the spin cycle is complete, and the curious decor of the rooms (my bedcovers, curtains and tablecloth were all in matching blue-and-white-picnic-basket-style), we absolutely love it. As soon as I had decorated my room, which involved removing a particularly horrendous clown painting from the wall and locking it in the storage closet with great haste, finding homes for everything I had crammed into my suitcases, replacing the picnic basket decor with some colourful scarves I found in a cheap store next-door and pinning a few bits and bobs up on the walls, I felt right at home.

The nightlife is, quite simply, immense. I realise I should give more (or any, even) words to the culture of the country in my first article, but honestly, as a student I feel I would be a failure not to give priority in my writing to such amazing nights out. The going out process generally follows the same pattern each time: we buy wine for €1.69, pre-drink, leave wherever we are pre-drinking at half-past midnight, party until six in the morning, stagger back home and then get up at three in the afternoon. This style of living I could easily get used to. Another happy aspect of the nights out here is the liberal attitude of the bar staff towards alcohol. Having worked in the Old Bar in LUU before flying out to Alcala, I am used to measuring out spirits and wine in a strict manner, so I was surprised, and may I add, delighted, when on my first trip to a Spanish bar, the sight I beheld was that of staff pouring spirits down the throats of various partygoers and people dancing on the bar itself. I later ordered a vodka and coke and was presented with a glass half full of vodka and a bottle of coke for me to pour in myself. After pouring in what I could fit, the barman then proceeded to pour even more vodka into the leftover coke in the bottle. Great! It goes without saying I had an awesome night and a not so awesome hangover the next day, which I survived with the help of my also-hungover flatmates, ‘Mean Girls’ – or Malas Chicas in Spanish – and good old Dominoes pizza.

It truly feels like I’ve been here for weeks, months even. It doesn’t even feel that different from being at university in Leeds – there are some weird coincidences too – living on the third floor, being three minutes away from a takeaway pizza store and living in a building mapped onto a flight path are the main things that stand out as being the same here as they were in Leeds last year. It just goes to show that despite being hundreds of miles away from home, things really aren’t all that different. Added to which, it is becoming clearer by the year that it is my destiny to eat pizza and do little or no work due to the noise from the planes. Basically, it’s going to be a great year.