My New Year’s resolution is to speak more Spanish.
I came to this decision when I was reminded by my flatmate of an incident that took place back in September that I had either forgotten or blanked from my mind out of sheer embarrassment. In a Classical Culture class, a Spanish guy sitting next to me asked whether he could borrow my pen to sign the attendance sheet but I, in my Spanishless state, didn’t understand this extremely simple question (we were taught how to ask whether we could borrow things in Year 8 at school) and before I could turn on my (almost non-existent) Spanish brain or even utter a ‘Pardon?’, he had already picked up my pen, signed the sheet and placed it back on the table. He followed this with a Gracias, which I, now in panic mode, proceeded to repeat back to him instead of replying with a response that would actually have been suitable for the occasion, such as the also extremely simple De nada. What a muppet.
Then, less than a week ago, the cleaning lady – the one in the foyer with the rubber gloves – asked us something or other as we stumbled out of our flat to make our way to an early-morning exam, and we had to ask her to repeat herself twice, at the end of which we still hadn’t understood. Asking more than twice crosses some sort of social boundary, so after shooting baffled looks at each other, we muttered a quick No entiendo (I don’t understand) and scuttled off to the safety of the lift – which, incidentally, we never use if we see other people waiting for it; God forbid we actually have to speak some Spanish.
When I went back to England for Christmas, people seemed surprised at my lack of progress in learning the language, but it is worryingly easy to get stuck in a rut; in a little English bubble. Going home for Christmas was amazing, especially after depressing ourselves with the thought that we may not make it home at all due to the huge amount of snowfall and its unwelcome persistence. Even when I was at Madrid’s airport sitting in front of my gate, there was still cause for alarm. The TV screen at the gate suddenly went blank, with no explanation. This turned out to be Spain’s way of letting us know that our gate number had changed – apparently a useful announcement wasn’t seen as a necessary addition to the situation. The fact that this happened not just once, but twice, really made it a relief to finally get home. Plus, it was nice to able to speak English for two weeks for a change (ha, ha). Being home was great though – when I wasn’t busy seeing friends, family and neighbours, I was either glued to 4OD (we can’t access it in Spain) or munching on a bacon sandwich. The bacon here is far from impressive – in actual fact, meat in general falls well below par compared to England: the sausages are coiled in a most repelling manner, the mince is often composed of both beef and pork all mashed together and the giant legs of ham that adorn the dreaded final aisle of Carrefour make me want to gag every time I am forced to walk past them, which so happens to be almost every time I shop there, as the alcohol aisle is most inconveniently placed far too close to these hanging horrors for my liking. Is this Spain’s novel way of tackling its drinking problem? If so, it could probably do a better job than the police, who ‘solve’ the problem of drinking on the streets by advising the offending participants to relocate to a park.
The incompetence of the police fades into the background when compared to the teachers here or more specifically, their incompetence during the exam period. In Leeds, bags and even coats are placed well out of reach at the front of the room, we each have our own set of the questions written on a sheet in front of us, phones must be switched off unless you want to jeopardize your entire degree and the invigilators arrive early. In this country, the teachers (who also assume the role of invigilator) breeze in ten minutes late, dictate the exam questions to us, allow bags to sit under the desks and pay no attention to any beeps of mobile phones (one went off three times in 15 minutes). I suppose, in their defence, this is all in keeping with the chilled-out attitude of the Spanish. I mean, they do have a reputation to uphold and at least there is some consistency in these ‘values’ – but really, where do you draw the line? Renewing books from the library is also an interesting affair: apparently, once you’ve renewed the item online, you’re supposed to write the due date yourself in the stamp page of the book, which defeats the purpose of renewing it online in the first place. It really has been like flying back in time, in a way. I also remember thinking this when I heard Kylie’s Can’t Get You Out of My Head for the first time in a long while back in either October or November. Any chance of this situation realizing its potential as a fairly nostalgic moment dissolved into thin air on discovering where the music was coming from – none other than a young Spanish guy cruising down the road in his car, windows rolled down and sunglasses on in a failed attempt to come across as smooth. English culture, especially the language and music, is quite popular here. Listening to tunes from the UK and USA as well as keeping up to date with what’s in the charts seems to be the ‘done’ thing here, especially by young people, which just makes it funny when they get it so, so wrong. Anything other than Kylie would have sufficed. I don’t mean to tease – it was just the fact that he was trying so hard to impress any onlookers that greatly boosted the comic value. I did however feel sorry for one poor boy, who I spotted walking down the street wearing a T-shirt with the words ‘Hot Girl’ written across his chest.
Two weeks in England for Christmas was not enough and due to leaving so early in January, we missed any chance of seeing ‘The King’s Speech’ in the cinema. Having heard everyone rave about it back home, we were desperate to see it and planned a post-exams trip into Madrid the other day to go and watch Colin Firth in all his glory. It was set to be a lovely day – although yet again without a trace of Spanish (shopping in H&M, lunch at TGI Friday’s and a film in English) – however, we arrived at the cinema 20 minutes late, despite storming through the metro – which is in no way comfortable after just having eaten an enormous cheesy bacon cheeseburger and chips and about a gallon of coke (damn free refills). Anyway, as a result we weren’t allowed in. Twenty minutes late and we’re not allowed in? In a country where teachers can’t even turn up on time to their own exams? In a country where being late is practically a synonym for ‘Spanish culture’? We were offered tickets for the next showing but that would have conflicted with our plans for going out that night, and as model Erasmus students, we knew in our hearts what we had to do. So, with some grumbling and plenty of moaning, we headed back home and got on the wine, which quickly worked its magic in helping us all to forget the sorry situation.
On the other hand, at least we got to go to Ibiza. The metro stop, that is – you could travel the world here just by riding the metro; a trip to Bélgica (Belgium), a quick stop-off in Colombia (Columbia) and maybe a cheeky internal visit to Bilbao. Noticing this reminded me that there is a place called Egypt about 20 minutes away from my hometown High Wycombe – which I can’t make head or tail of, seeing as Wycombe is the least exotic place on the planet. The only pyramids you’ll find in Wycombe are pyramid schemes, which accompany the huge assortment of crimes committed hourly in this pitiful place. It really is a hole – in fact, Oscar Wilde is rumoured to have said “The name of the town is a suitable warning...High ‘Why-Come’? Why indeed!” and even more brilliantly, George A. Romero’s vision: “When there is no more room in hell, the dead will walk High Wycombe.” Although I cannot validate these quotes, mainly because they are from a website called http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/High_Wycombe (which is well worth a read if you fancy a laugh), they still ring true and serve to highlight my point.
Although Madrid’s Ibiza was a little disappointing, all of the Erasmus students across Spain are going on a trip to the real Ibiza in May, which is going to be amazing – we’ve already been told there will be a beach, foam and water party. Again, a slight clash arises between what we probably should do and our duty as Erasmus students, as module enrolment for the next academic year at Leeds begins at the same time as the Ibiza trip. The choice begins – stay in Alcalá picking modules we’ll enjoy for nine months or go on a wild four-day holiday; the sensible option or the Erasmus option? Once again, we all know what we’ll choose. I’m also jetting off to Marrakech with a few friends in a couple of days, which is going to be brilliant. Added to trips into Madrid and a visit to Toledo, as well as a potential trip to Granada or Seville on the cards for late February, this whole year abroad escapade is turning out to be pretty awesome.
