"Rodolfo el Reno de la Nariz Roja"

Following the dramas of two weekends ago, my week in France miraculously went off without a hitch. Okay, so I arrived in Aix-en-Provence sleep-deprived, disorientated and almost completely deaf in one ear (the plane’s descent had wreaked havoc with my poor ears, which were already congested from the cold I was getting over), but was nevertheless deliriously happy to have defied those nasty air traffic controllers and made it out of Spain.

And what a charming place to escape to it was. Aix has that quaint, dinky, distinctly French feel to it, with its cobbled streets, little squares with fountains and abundance of tasteful (i.e. pricey) boutiques with enticing window displays. Add to that a plethora of alluring restaurants, cafés, bakeries and crêpe stalls, and you’ve got yourself an upmarket shoppers’ paradise. In comparison to Cuenca, where I feel positively rich, I felt like a pauper in the midst of all this glitz and glamour.

A very Christmassy Aix-en-Provence

However, it looked and felt considerably more festive than Cuenca, which was a bonus for my Christmas-loving self. Everywhere we went twinkling fairy lights adorned the trees, fountains, shops and buildings, and the continental Christmas market – each stall a little wooden shed with fake snow on its roof – and children’s carousel made the place feel like a winter wonderland. A smattering of snow and it would’ve been like a giant Santa’s grotto.

So, like any self-respecting food-lover and shopaholic, I spent the week doing what I do best: spending far too much money and eating far too many Nutella crêpes. It was lovely to have a change of scene and even lovelier to see Anna. We whiled away the evenings catching up on each other’s news, watching Christmas films and drinking cheap wine (as well as, on one memorable night, some very syrupy crème de cassis, snaffled from her landlord’s booze cupboard). On my last day, our friend Tom who’s living in nearby Nice came to join us and we spent the day in Marseille. Although I liked it, as a big city (second only to Paris in size, apparently) it inevitably lacked that small-town charm which Aix does so well. 

Anna and me in Marseille

My visit went by in a whirl, and before I knew it I was embarking on the long journey back to Cuenca, wishing that the following week would just hurry up and happen so I could go back to England. Of course, wishing one’s time away is never a worthwhile thing to do, but I’ve reached the point where I’m not only excited to come home for a couple of weeks, but impatient. The wonderful thing about being away from home is that not only do you learn to love a new place with an entirely different culture, but you truly begin to appreciate your own little corner of the world. I miss my family and friends, of course; but I also miss good old English roast dinners, fry-ups and bizarrely, Marmite.

Despite being somewhat disenchanted with the idea of having to go back to work for a week and a half between my little French vacances and my Christmas break, I’ve had a brilliant week. I had great fun teaching my classes about British Christmas traditions – such as Christmas crackers, kissing under the mistletoe and carol singing – typical Christmas food and how Christmas Day is celebrated in my family. The students, nosy as they are, particularly enjoyed being shown photos from Christmas 2008 of the family all sitting around the table wearing our paper crowns! The personal highlight for me, however, was hearing them all sing along to ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ and ‘Jingle Bells’ when I played it to them on YouTube. One class even gave me a round of applause at the end of the lesson, which touched me.

By Wednesday I’d given my Christmas presentation six times, and was positively brimming with festive cheer. What better way to channel it than to attend my first Christmas dinner of the year? The impressive Hostelería department at San José had laid on a complimentary 3-course pig-out for any staff interested (which was, of course, about 90% of us!), with the students catering to our every need, all in the name of practice for their course. Clad in black and white waiter gear and looking very professional, they milled around with trays of wine, beer and canapés in the bar area before inviting us to go through to the dining hall and take our seats at the meticulously decorated tables. The starter was a divine vegetable and prawn lasagne, followed by a sumptuous main course of chicken with raisin stuffing, homemade apple sauce, potatoes and gravy. By dessert time, I felt as though I were bursting at the seams, but somehow managed to find a spare corner in order to sample the blueberry cheesecake and fresh pomegranate.

Christmas lunch at San José

The red wine and champagne were flowing throughout, and at the end of the meal we were brought coffee and traditional Spanish Christmas sweets, before a hearty sing-song session during which each table took in turns to belt out a variety of Christmas classics. They were all in Spanish and sung at a ridiculous speed, of course, much to the amusement of my fellow diners as they watched me struggle through each verse, my eyes trained on the tongue-twisting lyrics in front of me. Some of them couldn’t even keep up, so I had no hope!

Yesterday, however, I think my busy lifestyle and lack of sleep had finally caught up with me. I woke up feeling rundown and exhausted, and although I eventually managed to  drag myself out of bed and get dressed, I soon realised I was in no state to go to work. Having never called in sick before, I didn’t know the procedure, but decided Elena was the best person to contact as she’s essentially ‘in charge’ of me at school. She didn’t seem to mind at all, and was very understanding, telling me to go back to bed and sleep. Nevertheless, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt –as I always have on the rare occasions in the past when I’ve phoned in sick – which is why usually when I’m ill I struggle through if I possibly can. On this occasion, though, the thought of having to teach four classes while feeling like that was unbearable.

With hindsight, it was definitely the right thing to do. I slept like I’ve never slept before and woke up feeling like a new person! I think I was momentarily struck by a case of end-of-term fatigue, which gives further reason to why I’m so eager to get back to England.

Speaking of which, with all being well (and yes, I’m talking to you, Spanish air controllers and you, snowy weather – behave yourselves!) I shall be back on British soil on Wednesday evening.

Last night, Corinna, Jaclyn and I happened upon some other English-speakers (Americans, of course – it seems I am literally the only English person in Cuenca!) in our favourite bar, El Quinto Pecado. They are also here as language assistants, but are working at the university and have been here for over a year. It’s strange that we’ve never met them before, really!

Tomorrow, Jaclyn, Corinna, Natira and I are heading to Albacete for a spot of Christmas shopping. Mary is going to meet us, and after spending the day there we’re going to go back to Villarrobledo, the small town where she and Krista live, and stay the night at their flat. On Sunday, we’re planning on having our very own language assistants’ ‘Christmas Day’, complete with Christmas dinner and presents; a perfect way to round off our fantastic first three months in Spain.

Well, the next time you’ll hear from me will be in 2011, so until then... ¡Feliz Navidad y Próspero Año Nuevo!

¡Hasta luego!

Mi Experiencia del Caos Aeroportuario...

By now, I’m sure the whole of Europe (including my modest readership) and probably much of the rest of the world will have heard about the Spanish air traffic controllers’ strike. If not, where have you been? Get out from under that rock and switch your telly on!

I wonder if those *insert swear word here*s who decided it would be a good idea to pull a sickie en-masse and send the country into utter chaos – to the extent that the government has declared a state of alarm for the first time since military rule ended in 1975 – thought about just how many hundreds of thousands of people they would be severely riling. The answer is they probably did, which makes it all the more infuriating.

Of course, if your business is transport and you want to cause a stir, it makes perfect sense to strike the night before one of the longest weekends in the Spanish calendar, when everyone who is anyone will be making the most of their 5 days off work and school by travelling elsewhere. However, my objection is to the fact that it was an unplanned and therefore completely illegal strike that (supposedly) nobody knew anything about until the very moment it happened on Friday evening. Cue cancelled flights, stranded passengers and airport-cum-dosshouses. The strike may have been nipped in the bud now, but its effects will take days to rectify as the ten affected Spanish airports attempt to deal with the backlog of aborted flights and irate travellers.

Well, I happen to have had the misfortune to experience it firsthand. Yes, I am indeed one of those estimated 250,000 ‘affected’ people that you’ve heard about on the news (it sounds like we have some sort of disease, doesn’t it?!), although admittedly indirectly. I’d better warn you now that this post won’t be as chirpy as usual. In fact, it will largely be a rant. Therefore, if you’re mainly reading to find out what I’ve been up to in the past week and would like to save yourself some time, I’d suggest you skip ahead a few paragraphs.

A bit of festive cheer to break up my
complaining... Cuenca's Christmas lights are finally on! 

All was going suspiciously smoothly. Hugh left work overzealously early on Friday afternoon, still scarred from the Valencia non-event two weeks before. He arrived at the airport with hours to spare, sailed through security and even had time for a snack while he waited to board. When the gate was announced, he went and sat next to it. It was only when the screen at the gate said his flight was ‘boarding’, when it clearly wasn’t – there was no plane in sight and Hugh overheard a man on the phone saying something about a strike – that alarm bells began ringing, despite the fact that there had been no announcements from the ever-reliable Ryanair.

Meanwhile, I was on a Madrid-bound coach nervously waiting for news. For me, there was no going back, and I began to envisage a lonely night in a 4* hotel. Of course, you will have guessed the ending of this story already; no need for me to tell you that Hugh didn’t get on that plane (principally because it was still in Madrid), or that I did indeed spend my Friday night holed up in a hotel room alone, watching live news streams about the ‘caos aeropuertuario’ and consoling myself by eating the chocolate coins which I’d bought as a little present for Hugh. Worse still, the hour Hugh spent standing in a queue of fuming passengers (not to mention a group of rioting Portuguese football fans who tried to push in – seriously) at Ryanair’s ticket sales desk to get himself booked on the next evening’s flight turned out to be fruitless, as all their flights to and from Spain on Saturday had to be cancelled too.

So this morning I had no option but to check out of the hotel, pay 80 Euros for the miserable night I’d spent there and head back to Cuenca, exhausted, depressed and dejected...

...Which brings me to the present. On top of the disappointment and fatigue, I’ve also been suffering from a sore throat, headache and congestion for the past couple of days. Add to this that I still don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Marseille on Monday to visit Anna as planned (considering Madrid, where I’m due to fly from, is the worst affected airport), and it’s safe to say that I’m not a happy bunny. Equally, I’m a snivelling snot-machine; don’t cross me.

Still, qué será será... no point crying over spilt milk and all that jazz. If I throw enough tired old clichés at the situation, maybe somehow it’ll become less gut-wrenchingly awful.

On a serious note, if by some miracle (and it will be a miracle, because I’m taking nothing for granted these days) I do get to France on Monday at least this week won’t be a complete write-off. My Puente is still possibly salvageable... just!

Okay, rant over now. This is where those of you left off reading at the end of the fourth paragraph should pick up again!

This week at school was another fairly low-effort one. The last few weeks before Christmas seem to be prime exam-taking time, and many of my older classes were affected by this, meaning that my presence was yet again unnecessary. In the few classes I did go to, they were either reading a book – during these lessons my role is to explain vocabulary they don’t know, which is more challenging than it sounds! – or taking oral exams, which I was able to help out with. The latter made me feel strangely powerful and important, as I got to have a say in the marks they got!

Needless to say, most of them were embarrassingly bad and really didn’t justify more than a 2 or 3 out of 10, but this worked in the favour of the ‘good ones’ as their efforts shone all the more among the heap of duds that were their classmates.

A dusting of snow over Castilla-La Mancha...
taken from the coach window
on the way back from my fruitless
journey to Madrid! 

Sorry if I sound harsh, but you haven’t witnessed how poor they are. Not that English schoolchildren are any better at learning Spanish, of course – indeed, they’re probably worse – but the point is that these kids (and I’m referring to Bachillerato level, which is non-compulsory pre-university students) have got to pass their English exam with a B1 (which is a reasonably high level) in order to get a place on any kind of university course. That’s how important having a respectable level of English is here, although you wouldn’t know it; most of them really couldn’t care less. I feel sorry for them in a way, as for many of them English is something they’re being forced to learn, but as many an exasperated English teacher has said to me, they’ll regret it in the future when they realise how useful English is.

In terms of the social side of things, it’s also been a pretty tame week. This is probably due to the fact that I used up all my energy and inclination to be anywhere near alcoholic drinks on Monday night, when I went to a bar to watch the Real Madrid v. Barcelona match with Jaclyn. The football fans among you will know what an important game this is, especially in Spain. Although admittedly not a football fanatic myself, not to mention someone who is still thoroughly baffled by the offside rule (despite several gallant attempts by Hugh to explain it to me), I felt it was my duty to witness this match and soak up some of the Spanish culture that came with it. The idea was to have a couple of glasses of wine, fill up on the free tapas and stay for the first half, before going home to bed. After all, it was a school night.

This was all fine until just before the end of the first half,  when what I can only describe as a Spanish ‘chav’ came up to the bar to order a drink. I could feel him eyeing me up, so wasn’t surprised when he started a conversation. The bar was absolutely rammed (as well as deafeningly loud) but I chatted to him politely for a few minutes while he waited for the barmaid to serve him. Then, when she came over to take his order, he ordered Jaclyn and me a drink each too, despite our protests. This happened a few times, as he just didn’t seem to be able to take no for an answer when we said we didn’t want another drink, and we didn’t have the nerve to just leave the drink on the bar and flee!

It was an awkward situation to say the least. He was nice enough, but he was quite clearly only buying us drinks because he fancied one or both of us. This was made embarrassingly apparent when he summoned his friend’s very cute 6-year-old son (who, in my opinion, shouldn’t have been in a loud, smoky bar full of drunk football fans in the first place) and started playing the part of macho-man-who’s-good-with-children and making the poor child kiss us on both cheeks, as is the Spanish way. We dutifully cooed at him (the child, that is) for a while and then started a conversation among ourselves, hoping he’d go away. Of course, he didn’t. Instead he tried a new strategy, whipping out his mobile phone and waving it in my face. On the screen was a photo of a red Ferrari, which he triumphantly told me belonged to him. Er, great... if I were the sort of shallow, gold-digging girl who’s impressed by men with flashy cars. Frankly, I’d probably be equally impressed if he drove a tractor. I didn’t tell him this; instead I just smiled and nodded.

A snowy field and nothing else for miles...

By this point, the second half was nearly over and Jaclyn and I were looking forward to the match ending so we could make our excuses and leave. He had other ideas though, and bought us yet another glass of wine. Once we’d drunk that (far too quickly, as we didn’t want to hang around longer than necessary) and the match was finally over, we made a speedy exit, despite his best efforts to persuade us to stay for another. His parting line to me was: “¿Tienes novio?” (“Do you have a boyfriend?”), to which I nodded apologetically and all but ran out of the bar, Jaclyn hot on my trail. Poor guy; not only did he spend money on buying us unwanted wine all night only to be rejected at the end of it, but he was also supporting Real Madrid (who got slaughtered 5-0 by Barcelona, for those of you who don’t know). It just wasn’t his lucky night...

Right, now that I’ve filled you in on all my rather uninspiring news, I must go and drug my snotty self up if I’m to have any hope of sleeping through the night. Who knows what the next two days will bring in terms of my flight to Marseille; I’m trying not to think too much about it. Instead, I will try the traditional British remedy when times are hard: a nice cup of tea.

¡Hasta luego!

Mi primer día de Accion de Gracias

If everything was how it should be, I would no doubt have some lovely photos of my fantastic weekend in Valencia to adorn this week’s post with. However, sometimes life deals you a rubbish hand and you just have to grin and bear it. This was the case last weekend when I awoke, confused and disorientated, to a frantic phone call from Hugh on Saturday morning. He’d missed his flight, thanks to a broken down train on the tracks ahead meaning that his train (ironically named the Gatwick Express) couldn’t move.

By the time he arrived at the airport, check-in had closed. After finding out there were no more flights to Valencia that day, he made a spur-of-the-moment decision to hop on the next flight to Madrid (not Valencia, granted, but at least the right country!) at a cost of nearly £100. Having waited in a long line at security, thinking all was well, he got to the front of the queue only to be told that in his confusion he’d forgotten to check in for the new flight. Cue a mad dash back to the check-in desk, where the nice Easyjet man informed him check-in had closed one minute ago. Despite Hugh’s best attempts to talk him round, he wouldn’t budge: they’d received an internal memo from the big bosses that morning warning them that under no circumstances should check-in be re-opened for customers who arrived late, even if it was by 60 seconds. Cheers, guys.

Suffice to say, it was a big blow for both of us when reality hit that he wouldn’t be coming to Spain at all that weekend. Luck really was against us, it seemed. As the hotel in Valencia was already booked and paid for, I thought about asking one of the girls to come with me instead, but it was too short notice and everybody already had plans. I had to accept once and for all that my weekend in the land of paella and juicy oranges wasn’t going to happen.

Under such circumstances, I would’ve expected a weekend in Cuenca to pale in comparison and generally be a disappointment, but it actually turned out to be wonderful. On hearing of my misfortunes, Corinna invited Natira, Jaclyn and me over to her flat for a traditional vegetarian Bavarian meal of Knoedel (bread dumplings) with a divine creamy mushroom sauce; very filling! Afterwards, we headed to the shopping centre El Mirador for some retail therapy and went to the cinema. That night, we went out supposedly for a low-key drink and dance, but didn’t get home till 5.30 in the morning!

The rest of the week went by in a blur. It may be a cliché, but time really is flying – I don’t know how better to describe it. With less than four weeks to go until I fly home for Christmas, I’ve never been so aware of the fact that this year will be over before I know it, and this gives me all the more reason to make the most of the experience. Although from time to time I’m hit by bouts of self-doubt and worry about whether my Spanish is improving quickly enough, when I look back over the past two months I realise that I have already gained a lot. My confidence in speaking another language has come on leaps and bounds, though my self-consciousness hasn’t completely disappeared and I don’t think it ever will.  In two months I’ve built myself a life here, and that’s something I was anxious I wouldn’t be able to do before I came. Although I’m having the time of my life, I’m very excited to come back to England for the Christmas break and spend time with all the friends and family I’ve been missing. Apart from anything else, it’ll be lovely not to have to speak a word of Spanish or teach a single class for two weeks!

There isn’t much to report on the school front this week. Things haven’t been so intense for me the past couple of weeks, for various reasons including some of my classes having oral exams, which has meant my presence hasn’t been needed. It’s been nice to feel a bit less pressured. Next week, I’m going to be teaching my classes about English slang (as I didn’t really get a chance to this week), followed by a lovely 10 days off, as the next Puente (long weekend) is from 3^rd-8^th of December. As I have Fridays off anyway, I would only have had to go in on Thursday the 9^th, which seemed a bit of a waste, so I asked if I could have the Thursday off to make it a full 10-day run. They were more than happy to let me, so I wasted no time in making plans for how best to spend my time off. Hugh is coming on Friday (well, provided luck is on our side this time) and we’re hoping to spend the weekend in Madrid and Salamanca. Then on Monday the 6^th, I’m jetting off to visit my friend Anna who’s on her year abroad in Marseille. At university, we’re pretty inseparable and last year we lived together too, so I got used to seeing her every day. Now that we’re in different countries I miss her a lot, so I’m very excited to see her!

Having said this, I don’t want to look forward to anything too much for fear I might jinx myself – clearly I’m still scarred from last weekend’s unfortunate events.

On Thursday night, Natira, Jaclyn, Corinna and I met with Isabel for a drink, supposedly to discuss what was going to be expected of us as ‘the natives’ at the following night’s English-speaking dinner. However, it turned out to be more of a ploy to get us to go out (that woman really does like to party) and we ended up dancing the night away in Cuenca’s gay bar – the existence of which we were unaware of until that night – with a rather flamboyant man called Raul and a few other random Spanish people. It was definitely surreal, but probably one of the funniest nights out I’ve had here.

Me with my first ever Thanksgiving feast

The next day, however, after roughly four hours sleep, I was woken up by a phone call from Jaclyn at 9.45am. She was on her way over to the flat – the night before, after one too many vodkas, I had cheerfully agreed to get up early and go shopping with her for the food for the Thanksgiving lunch that she was going to cook for us. Nice one, Helen. Despite my self-inflicted sore head, I dragged myself out of bed, threw some clothes on and accompanied her to the butchers. Let me tell you, a typical Spanish butchers is hell on earth when you’ve got a hangover. Not only did it smell of dead flesh (as you’d expect, really) but the look of the meat on offer was enough to make even the strongest stomachs turn. Here in Spain, they don’t dress things up; the chickens still have their heads and feet intact, there’s a wide array of pig appendages (including trotters) on display and there are giblets galore. Worst of all, however, were the selection of whole skinned rabbits, complete with glassy, bloodied eyes staring menacingly at you. It really was like something out of a horror film. In the end we chickened out (excuse the pun) and went to a nearby supermarket.

As you can’t get your hands on a whole turkey in Cuenca for love or money, we opted for the biggest chicken we could find and made sure the friendly butcher removed all of the gory bits for us. When he proudly held open the chicken’s rear end and presented it to us, asking if we wanted anything else taken out, we nodded vigorously. Everything had to go.

Our pride and joy, roasted to
perfection (it may not be a turkey
but it was good!)

Back at Jaclyn’s flat, we were a flurry of activity. The feast consisted of roast chicken, sweet potatoes baked in brown sugar and butter, sautéed green beans with bacon and onions, mashed potato, sweet corn and homemade stuffing and gravy. After 3 hours of slaving away at the stove, everything was ready and the four of us (including Corinna, for whom we had made vegetarian versions of everything – right down to the homemade stuffing and gravy!) sat down to eat. It was my first ever Thanksgiving dinner and I thoroughly enjoyed it, although the lengths we’d had to go to in order to prepare it had drained me of the little energy I had had when I woke up that morning. After waddling home, I conked out for 3 hours and got up in time to get dressed and go out to the English-speaking dinner.

Dressed to the nines in a skirt, tights and high heels, in anticipation of going out after the meal, I was mortified when I caught sight of the ‘restaurant’ the dinner was to be held in. It was a glorified fast-food joint, reminiscent of somewhere like Frankie and Benny’s and packed full of screaming babies and whinging toddlers. We slunk in feeling incredibly overdressed and self-conscious. To add to our embarrassment, we were given big red, white and blue badges with our names on and ordered to wear them so we could be identified. The only small consolation was that our party was to have a room separate from the main restaurant (albeit one with big glass windows, which smacked of being in a fish bowl).  At first it was a bit awkward and unnatural, as we were all made to stand in a circle and introduce ourselves. I now know how it must feel to attend an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

As the only three native speakers apart from the half-Australian organiser Mike, the pressure was on Natira, Jaclyn and I to make sure these people got their 25 Euros-worth and spoke English all night. In order to do this, we had to split up and circulate, flitting from one group to the next and making conversation. To begin with it was fairly excruciating, but as the wine flowed things got a little less tense and everyone began to relax. In fact, I was so busy talking that I only had about three mouthfuls of the tapas on offer (which admittedly weren’t great anyway) before they went cold. Add to this the fact that I hadn’t sat down all night – the ‘dinner’ was a standing affair – so my feet were quite sore.

Natira, me and Jaclyn with José Luis, an
English teacher, at the English-speaking dinner

In spite of this, it was certainly the kind of weird and wonderful experience I’ll never forget, and it was nice to meet some new people. Besides, for us natives the food and drink was free so I’ve no complaints in that respect! Afterwards, we partied in the gay bar again, before moving onto a club. This time, I didn’t get to bed until 6.30am, and woke up very disorientated at 4.30pm. I’m still feeling delicate and sleep-deprived now, but I must say it’s all been worth it. Nonetheless, I certainly won’t be going out tonight; I’ll be otherwise occupied curled up in bed with a good book!

¡Hasta luego! 

"Tú eres un buen fichaje"

Right, first things first: Toledo was phenomenal! I’d recommend it to anybody. It was one of the most beautiful and unusual cities I’ve ever had the pleasure to visit. One thing I would say, however, is that you’ll need a map! We were lucky enough to have an expert among us in the form of Jaclyn, who spent 3 months in Toledo last year as part of a study abroad programme, and was therefore delighted to take on the role of tour guide. Which was just as well; the ‘streets’ are a labyrinth of narrow, winding, cobbled alleyways barely wide enough to allow a car to pass through (although, believe you me, cars do use these streets – and when they do, be sure to plaster yourself against the wall and suck your stomach in if you value your life). They have no logical order and you could quite easily wander around for hours blissfully ignorant of where on earth you were.

A typical street in Toledo (this is
actually one of the wider ones!)

Not, of course, that this would be a bad thing – it’s the kind of place that you don’t mind getting lost in. Without wishing to sound overly corny, it has a medieval, almost fairytale feel to it, as well as having a fascinating history. It actually used to be the capital city of Spain until the 8^th Century, and is probably most famous for its period during the Golden Age – known as ‘La Convivencia’ – when Christians, Jews and Muslims all lived together in harmony in the city. Our personal fountain of knowledge, Jaclyn, told us the streets were built in such a haphazard way on purpose, to confuse enemies. Even their narrowness was contrived: the idea was that the streets would be narrow enough for opposite neighbours to move between each other’s houses via a plank laid between upstairs windows if they needed to hide.

These days, Arabic and Jewish influences can still be seen all over the city in the form of the architecture, which I think is something that makes it quite unique in Spain. Something about the layout of the city reminds me slightly of Venice, but it lacks that glitzy, polished feel that Venice has. This is no criticism, though; on the contrary, it’s the rough diamond feel that gives it its appeal.

When we first arrived at our rather basic 2* hotel (with its rooms fetchingly decorated in green and brown hues – now that’s what I call innovative interior design!), I knew straight away it was going to be a weekend to remember. It was lovely to have all 6 of us together again, and some chill-out time with the girls was just what I needed. 

On Friday night, we sat around in the hotel room drinking cheap wine (from a carton, no less) and catching up on each other’s news, before heading out to some bars with Jaclyn’s friend José. After some frankly vicious chupitos (shots) of Cointreau, we moved on to Círculo, an impressive nightclub which used to be a church! With its high ceilings, towering arches and even an altar, it was a surreal experience to say the least. For the Christians among us, a church-cum-nightclub concept was understandably a tough one to swallow. Personally, however, I found it an inventive way of keeping a beautiful building – which might otherwise have been left to deteriorate into disrepair – alive and appreciated by thousands of people.

The whole gang. From left to right: Mary, Natira, 
Krista, me, Jaclyn,Corinna and José

By five o’clock in the morning, the wine, vodka and Cointreau I’d consumed in generous quantities were beginning to take their toll, and we decided it was time to call it a night. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped off at a cafe for montados (baguettes – the Spanish version of stopping off for a kebab!), where I got talking in surprisingly fluent Spanish – considering my state – to a man whose girlfriend was from Muswell Hill, just down the road from Crouch End where Hugh lives. We bonded over our bacon and cheese baguettes and this shared knowledge of the area of London where our other halves lived, before saying goodbye. I’ll never see him again, but it’s nice to be reminded just how small the world is every now and again...

On Saturday, we blearily emerged from our green and brown pits at around noon, and crawled out into the harsh light of day to do some sightseeing. We had lunch in a delightful vegetarian restaurant called Madre Tierra, mainly for the benefit of Corinna, the sole vegetarian among a gaggle of carnivores. She was literally like a child in a sweet shop, and so overwhelmed by the wealth of delicious meat-free choices the menu had to offer that we were more than happy to share in her excitement. The food was excellent, and very imaginative if Jaclyn’s goat’s cheese ice-cream was anything to go by. We all tried a bit and agreed it was one of the strangest things we’d ever tasted (though still surprisingly pleasant): sweet and cold like ordinary ice-cream, but with the unmistakable flavour of goat’s cheese laced through it, and accompanied by a salad dressed with balsamic vinegar. If you’re ever in Toledo, go and experience it for yourself!

A picture-postcard view from the San Martin
 bridge of the River Tagus

On Saturday night, our energy somewhat sapped from the night before, we just went out for a few drinks before going our separate ways (Jaclyn, Corinna and Mary stayed out while the rest of us decided bed was the only thing for it and went back to the hotel).

Sunday was a nice, relaxed day. Mary and Krista caught an earlier train back to Villarobledo, but the rest of us went to visit Jaclyn’s ex-host family, a lovely couple in their sixties whose children have grown up and moved away from home. They regularly take on English-speaking students who come to Spain for a period during their degree; Jaclyn was one in a long line of these, and they have another American boy living with them now! They have a beautiful four-storey house in Toledo’s old town, which dates back to the 13^th century and has all sorts of period features (there I go with my estate agent jargon) and a roof terrace affording breathtaking views of the city, although unfortunately, the weather was so filthy that day that we couldn’t enjoy the views. We sipped on chilled red wine (I can hear the gasps of all you wine-experts, but I can assure you it’s quite the norm to drink red wine cold here) and chatted in Spanish. They asked us to stay for lunch, which was a home-cooked feast of ribs in a tasty stew of vegetables and potatoes and the best chicken wings I’ve ever had (cooked in a tangy homemade marinade, of course), before we began our journey back to Cuenca.

One of my favourite shots... I think it 
captures Toledo's magic (even if 
I do say so myself)!

The week that followed was fairly low-key and laid-back, for which I was grateful after such a busy weekend. I didn’t need to go to a few of my classes, as they were having exams, and for the rest I didn’t bother planning anything either. The teachers didn’t seem to mind, which was a relief, and we just improvised or worked out of text books. Next week, however, I plan to be back to my lesson-planning self, and am thinking of teaching my classes about English slang, something which I hope they’ll be able to relate to and engage with as teenagers.

On Tuesday, I went out for drinks with some of the teachers again, and it was that evening that the title of my blog was born. One of them told me I’d looked bored in the staffroom earlier, so I explained that I wasn’t bored, just a little overwhelmed (well it’s fair enough, really isn’t it? I’m just one little English student who sticks out like a sore thumb among a whole pack of noisy, Spanish teachers all of whom are older than me). To this, they told me not to worry and said I was ‘un buen fichaje’. Ana explained it was a common expression in Spanish, and assured me it was a huge compliment. ‘Fichaje’ is a football term and literally means a ‘sign-up’, so if you’re a ‘buen fichaje’ it means you’re a welcome addition to the team, or someone who’s doing their job very well. Well, that’s a relief...

The gorgeous Toledan sunset...

Speaking of Spanish expressions, I must share a favourite of mine with you. I use it to describe our malodorous flatmate Victor (aka Shrek), who unfortunately continues to get more disagreeable as time goes on. I am still convinced he has special needs (I’m not just being mean – I’ve worked with special needs children so I think I’m at least slightly qualified to spot the behavioural signs in adults too), which is where the phrase: ‘le falta un verano’ comes in. Literally translated, it means ‘he’s missing a summer’, and it’s used to mean that someone isn’t quite all there. In English, I suppose the most similar phrase we have is ‘he’s a few cards short of a full deck’. For some reason, ‘le falta un verano’ tickles me enormously, and I now try to slip it into conversation wherever I can (without being too offensive, of course).

Last night, we went to the flat of a teacher at Corinna’s school, for wine and tapas. Afterwards, Jaclyn, Natira and I moved on to our favourite spot, El Quinto Pecado, to meet up with Isabel and Mike, the organisers of the English-speaking dinner that I mentioned in my last blog, which will be taking place next Friday. They’re both very colourful, larger-than-life people, and ever so slightly odd with it if I’m honest. However, variety is the spice of life as they say! Mike is an outspoken Australian whose parents were Spanish immigrants. He lived in Australia till he was 14, before they were able to move back to Spain, so he’s native in both English and Spanish. Isabel is a fun-loving Spanish lady, who despite being about 40 and married with a six-year-old son, loves nothing more than to party. She does belly dancing, and last night she spent ages begging me to go to a salsa club with her, assuring me that the men there were gorgeous (er, right). Having not had much sleep the night before, though, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed, so I made my excuses and left, despite her protests.

Tomorrow morning, I’m off to Valencia for the weekend! Hugh is flying directly to Valencia this time but we only have two days to explore the city, so I hope his flight doesn’t get delayed again. Valencia is Spain’s paella capital, so I’m very excited to sample its culinary delights. I’ve also been told to try Agua de Valencia, the city’s trademark drink made from champagne and fresh Valencian orange juice. My initial reaction was that it sounds just like Buck’s Fizz (which isn’t really what I’d call glamorous or exciting), but I’ll give it a chance. Maybe those Valencian oranges are what make it stand out from the crowd...

¡Hasta luego! 

El Tema de la Peluquería...

Contrary to the title of my last post, it seems autumn only lasts for about a week here and has now decided to step aside to let winter do its thing! The past few days have been very cold, windy and rainy (although luckily it’s brightened up again now). We’ve had the heating on nearly every day and I’ve been particularly glad of it in my sun-starved room, which usually feels like a morgue.

Today was another Spain ‘first’ for me. I had my hair cut in a Spanish hairdresser for the first time. Ana from school recommended me her hairdresser, ‘Paco y Ana’ – she’s friends with Paco and she has lovely hair, so I trusted her judgement.  I was pleasantly surprised by the results (I was worried I’d come out either looking like a poodle or a shorn sheep), but I can’t say the same for the process I had to go through to get my new ‘do.

Being a typically punctual Brit, I arrived a couple of minutes early for my 10.45am appointment, was greeted with friendly smiles and asked to take a seat.  So far, so good. I began idly flicking through a Spanish gossip magazine. The only other customers in there at the time seemed to be older ladies having their perms or tints done, three of whom were sitting waiting with me. Naturally, I assumed I’d be called first as I arrived first. This was not the case. Fifteen minutes passed... Then half an hour... Then 45 minutes... Then an hour.

By this point, the other women had all been called up and I was beginning to feel exasperated. The most bizarre thing was, no one else seemed to think that leaving a customer waiting for this long was anything out of the ordinary, and the staff were just getting on with their work, carefree. Finally, 1 hour and 15 minutes after my scheduled appointment – and just in the nick of time, as by this point I was so fed up I was plotting my escape – Ana of Paco y Ana fame casually called me up to have my hair washed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Er helIo? I’ve been waiting SEVENTY-FIVE MINUTES; does that not even merit an apology?! I decided against trying to complain in Spanish (firstly, because my Spanish probably isn’t up to it, and secondly because Cuenca is so small that news travels fast, and I wouldn’t like it to get back to the other Ana, who had personally recommended me the salon).

Two and a half hours after stepping into the salon, I was finally ready to leave. It must have been the longest wash, cut and blow-dry anyone has ever had in the history of mankind. In England, I would only expect to spend that long in a salon if I were getting a full head of highlights! However, I was foolish to think that things would be the same in Spain. After all, the Spanish are renowned for their tardiness and impunctuality, and today they really lived up to their stereotype! Cultural differences aside, I was pleased with my cut and might consider going back (but I’d have to make sure I always go on a Friday when I’ve got nothing else to do). Nevertheless, I didn’t leave a tip. Maybe it was stingy, but anyone who makes me wait that long is asking for trouble...

Anyway, at least my hair will be behaving itself this weekend in Toledo. Natira, Corinna, Jaclyn and I are catching the coach to Madrid at 6.30 this evening, where we’ll then hop on a high-speed train – which only takes 20 minutes – to Toledo if everything goes to plan. Mary and Krista are already there, having caught a grotesquely early train from their town, Villarrobledo, this morning. Jaclyn has friends in Toledo (yes, real, authentic Spanish friends!) who will be able to show us around. I’m looking forward to sampling the nightlife and – as ever – the wine that the city has to offer!

This week at school has been a bit of a mixed bag. Since there are no British festivals between Bonfire Night and Christmas (how dull we are...), I didn’t have a specific topic up my sleeve, and have begun looking to the teachers for a bit of advice. Some of the classes have been learning about describing physical appearances, so I planned a lesson based around that.

First, I built up a ‘physical appearance’ mind map on the board, asking them all to contribute words they knew to  describe the way people look (tall, short, fat, thin) and adding more complex words that they wouldn’t already know (stocky, lanky, spotty, freckly, six-pack). Next, I put them into pairs and gave one person in each pair a photo of a celebrity, telling them to describe the photo to their partner using the vocabulary on the board so their partner could guess who they were. They loved it. I was buzzing round the class like a blue-arsed fly, rotating the 12 photos around the pairs so everyone got to try a few different ones. Finally, I played a good old-fashioned game of 20 Questions, where a student had to come to the front of the class, and, with a celebrity in mind, answer questions from their classmates about the celebrity. The questions can only be ones that have ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers, such as ‘Does she have brown hair?’ or ‘Is he slim?’. Minimal effort from me, and it got them talking. Job done! 

With other classes, we’ve started doing some reading. Much to my delight, I get to revisit two of my favourite childhood reads  – ‘The Witches’ by Roald Dahl, and Michael Morpurgo’s ‘Kensuke’s Kingdom’, as two of my British Council classes have to read them.

With my Hostelería group, who are adults, I made up some hotel role-play cards and asked them to create dialogues based on them; for example, between a hotel concierge and a customer who wants to know a good restaurant to eat in.

I still very much have my favourite and least favourite classes, but I’m learning to just get on with it and make the most of the present situation (or, failing that, just give withering looks to kids I don’t like). I’ve also very much discovered my voice in terms of discipline; a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have dared raise my voice to a class for fear of them laughing in my face. But now, I’ve lost my inhibitions and am getting increasingly less of a soft touch. Just yesterday, I was left for about 5 or 10 minutes on my own with a class of particularly boisterous (and sometimes obnoxious) 14-year-olds, while Ana dashed to the photocopier.

 At first, they were chatting among themselves and I thought all was going to be fine, until the noise level gradually began to rise. Next thing I knew, some of the boys were out of their seats and pencil cases were being launched through the air as missiles. Surprisingly myself with my own vocals, I shouted at them that they were acting like 5-year-olds and I wasn’t impressed. When Ana came back in, I wasted no time in grassing the little beggars up. That’ll teach them to mess with me!

Yesterday, I went for drinks with Ana and a few other teachers, which was lovely, although after 2 glasses of wine and several tapas my eyes were drooping (it was only 4pm) and I couldn’t have had a conversation in English, let alone Spanish. A siesta was the only thing for it.

Apart from that, this week has been fairly uneventful. On the 26^th of November, I (and the other ‘natives’) have been invited to an English-speaking dinner, organised by a Spanish lady called Isabel and an Australian guy called Mike, who regularly organise similar events . The idea is that Spanish people who want to improve their English can come along and practise speaking with native English speakers, in a natural and relaxed environment. Best of all, the food is free for us natives! It would be rude to say no...

Well, this one has been short and sweet by my standards, but never fear; I’m sure I’ll be back on form next week with another epic-length report on mi vida español .

¡Hasta luego! 

Llega el otoño a Castilla-La Mancha...

This week, I’ve learnt three things: Ryanair are officially useless (although you could argue I knew this already); bank holiday weekends aren’t just rainy in the UK; and ‘Guy Fawkes’ is a near impossible phrase for Spaniards to pronounce.

Last Friday, I arrived at the 4* hotel that Hugh had booked for us in Madrid at around 11.00pm. Expecting to receive a text from him any minute then, saying that he’d just landed and was making his way to the Metro to come and join me, I settled down on the king-size bed to watch a bit of Spanish news on the plush flat-screen TV. Sounds blissful, doesn’t it? Well it was, until it got to about midnight – still no word from him, and the TV was beginning to get boring.  By 12.30, my eyes were getting heavy and I wondered what could be taking him so long. By 1am, I was just plain worried: the flight information had disappeared from Ryanair’s website, suggesting it had landed ages ago, but there was still no word from Hugh.

While my overactive and overwrought imagination began thinking up all sorts of terrible scenarios involving aeroplanes sinking to the bottom of the sea, you’ll be pleased to know he finally rocked up at the door of the hotel room... at 2am. The battery on his phone had died, he explained, and thus he hadn’t been able to text me to let me know that his flight had been delayed by over two hours, or indeed that he was alive at all. My huge relief to see him was somewhat clouded by my desire to throw him straight back out of the hotel room (or preferably, out of the window – we were on the top floor, after all, so I could’ve inflicted some suitable damage), but in the end we settled for sleep; something we both greatly needed by this point.

Despite the turbulent (gosh, I’m witty) start to the weekend, I’m happy to report we had a lovely time. Even the grey skies and showers which plagued us for most of the weekend didn’t put us off exploring the city. On Saturday, we wandered round the shops (until Hugh got fed up – next time, I’m going with a girl!). In the evening, we had a cocktail in a bar which had no prices on the menu, which made us suspect it was going to be extortionate. We held our breath as we waited for our suited and booted waiter (I kid you not, he was even wearing a waistcoat and tie!) to bring us the bill, and were not surprised when we didn’t get much change from 20 euros for two cocktails. That’ll teach us!

Hugh posing proudly with his double quantity
of Sake - note the bloodshot eyes!

Afterwards, we ate at a Japanese restaurant, Dai-kichi, as recommended by one of my private students, Jesús. The Menú Japones was a feast of miso soup, sushi, sashimi, tempura and green tea flavoured ice cream for dessert, and reminded me of all the kinds of food I’d been missing out on in Cuenca. At the end of the meal, we decided to try the traditional Japanese wine, Sake, which is served hot and is very strong. However, my adventurous side was soon suppressed when my stomach lurched after taking one sip, so I decided it would be wise to stop. Hugh, however, after having consumed half a bottle of wine with dinner, was determined not to waste it, and proceeded to drink the whole amount – intended for two people – to himself. We left the restaurant and staggered to a bar (well, he staggered – I still had some dignity in my semi-sobriety at this point), where we had two more drinks each.

Getting up the next day was an unpleasant but necessary task, as we had to check out at midday. When we’d pulled ourselves together, we decided the best possible way to soak up the alcohol was with a big Indian meal. I was very excited at the prospect of a curry, as I hadn’t had one since well before I left England – people just don’t eat Indian food in Cuenca, so there are neither restaurants nor supermarkets where you can get your hands on any. Hugh put his Googling skills into action and found us a highly-esteemed restaurant called Tandoori Station, about which many customers had raved and said it was the best Indian food they’d ever tasted. Well, what can I say? It was amazing. I’d even go as far as to jump on the bandwagon and say it’s the best I’ve ever tasted too. We got a 3-course tasting menu, and it was heaven. Seriously, if you ever go to Madrid, I wholeheartedly recommend this place!

A glimpse of the mighty El Prado from 
the outside...

Afterwards, it was time to get cultural. We headed for El Prado, Madrid’s palatial and world-famous art gallery. I was very glad I’d booked tickets in advance, as the queues snaked around the whole of one side of the building. It was very satisfying to waltz past them and straight into a different entrance! Inside, we didn’t know where to begin. As neither of us are exactly what you’d call art buffs, we just settled on wandering about aimlessly from room to room (the place is so big that I think we only saw about a tenth of what was on display; you’d need about a week to cover the whole thing!). The experience overall was undeniably lovely – not excluding seeing the building which is a work of art in itself – but as I know nothing about art and was suffering from an Indian food coma by this point, we didn’t last very long. There are only so many pictures of religious scenes and monarchs (why did everyone in those days paint the same things? Where was their imagination?!) one can look at before one’s eyes begin to glaze over and one’s feet begin to ache. Having said that, we were both rather taken aback when we stumbled across a painting (don’t ask me who it was by or what it was called) of a statue of the Virgin Mary in a church, with a priest kneeling at her feet. Sounds fairly standard... until I tell you that coming from the Virgin’s nipple was a neat, projectile stream of breast milk, making its way directly into the priest’s open mouth. Well, it made a change from the run-of-the-mill Mary and baby Jesus scenes, I suppose!

After recharging our batteries in El Prado’s surprisingly good value cafeteria, we headed to Parque del Oueste, where Madrid’s very own teleférico (cable car) leaves from. It takes you on an 11 minute journey about 40 metres above ground level, and affords magnificent views of the palace, river and city in general. As we did it at night time, the twinkling lights made it all the more aesthetically pleasing, and a perfect way to round off our weekend.

I caught the last coach back to Cuenca on Sunday evening, leaving Hugh to kill time in the airport until his 6.30am flight (from which he alighted and went straight into work without having had any sleep, the madman).

Monday was a typical dull, rainy bank holiday, just like being back in the good old Blighty! Still, I managed to catch up on sleep and do a bit of planning for that week’s lessons. The topic of choice was Bonfire Night, but I wasn’t very well prepared and didn’t have enough activities to keep the classes going. I’m finding it very challenging to think of engaging, educational activities and/or games to keep my classes occupied and make sure they’re all learning something. The teachers don’t seem to think I’m doing a bad job, or at least they’ve never said they do – instead, they tend to just leave me to my own devices while they sit at the back of the class and watch. I’m not sure if this is because they’re confident I can handle it all on my own, or just because it’s a good opportunity for them to have a break. I feel under pressure to come up with wonderful lesson plans, and although I know the teachers are there to help me out if I get stuck, I see it as a personal challenge to be able to cope on my own.

The lack of guidance in terms of what kind of lessons I’m expected to deliver is still an issue for me, and sometimes gets me really worked up and stressed. It’s not that I can’t handle the freedom, but a bit of structure would go a long way and would help me to feel more confident and organised in class. I suppose my main concern is that I don’t tend to get much feedback from my teachers about how I’m doing, so for all I know, I could be screwing this up majorly. As it is, though, my new strategy is going to be to ask the teachers in advance what we’ll be doing next week, and then try to think up an activity based around that.

Thankfully, the most dreaded class of my week – about which I wrote in my last blog – were less awful this week. The teacher told me I didn’t have to come this week if I didn’t feel like it (she obviously still felt guilty from the week before), but I decided the best way to deal with it would be to tackle it head on, rather than stick my head in the sand. I found a simplified text about Bonfire Night on the internet, printed it out and photocopied enough for each student. The idea was to read through it so they could follow the words while I was reading. I hoped this would work better than just talking to them, as their English is clearly too poor to be able to follow what I’m saying. After I’d read the text, I gave them five minutes to re-read it to themselves, trying to absorb the meaning and underlining any words they didn’t know the meaning of. Then, I asked them to tell me the words they didn’t understand, and I explained what each one meant, writing the Spanish translations on the board as I went along.

It was a painstaking process as they didn’t understand most of the text, but it paid off. Finally, they were participating, and even – shock horror – contributing their own information about similar Spanish festivities without being pushed much at all. I felt a sense of triumph at the end of the lesson, and the rest of the week’s lessons followed suit. I found other ways to make the lesson interactive, such as doing an online crossword with Bonfire Night-related vocabulary. I projected the image of the crossword onto the classroom wall and read out the clues so they could guess them and fill in the crossword as a group.

For my more advanced classes, I showed them a clip on YouTube from a BBC documentary about the Gunpowder Plot, and then asked them questions about it to see if they’d understood.

By Thursday, I was exhausted as usual (especially as I’d had 6 private classes that week) and glad that the weekend had landed. On Wednesday, I had my first class with the two daughters of a teacher at San José. When I arrived at their apartment, I was surprised to see the girls were only 11 and 12. I was apprehensive, as most of my private students are adults (apart from one 16-year-old), so I’m used to being able to make conversation with them as I would with my friends. Within about five minutes of talking to these two and watching their expectant faces stare back at me, however, I was stumped. Thinking on my feet, I looked up ESL games online, and found a game of hangman with different categories such as body parts, fruit and vegetables and adjectives. They loved it!

Víllora's old-fashioned 'lavadero' was just too 
tempting for Tristan, the dog of one of Marta 
and Rafael's friends!

On Thursday evening, during my hour with Marta the English teacher and her husband Rafael, I mentioned to them that I wanted to practise my Spanish as much as possible, so they invited me to go walking in the countryside with them and their friends on Saturday. I took them up on the offer and had a fantastic day; we drove about 50 minutes outside of Cuenca, to a beautiful spot with rolling mountains, an idyllic river and nothing for miles except beautiful scenery. After our walk, we drove to a nearby ‘town’, Víllora. I use town in the loosest sense of the word, as it was basically a few houses, a pub, a bank, a casa rural (where we had our delicious 3-course lunch to re-fuel after the day’s exertions) and a lavadero, a delightful old building with a trough full of water where people used to go to wash their clothes! The grand total of inhabitants is just 80 – and I thought Cuenca was small...

Me admiring the magnificent view of the
Puente de lo Imposible and surrounding countryside...

After lunch, we scrambled up a mountainside to get breathtaking views of the Puente de lo Imposible (the Impossible Bridge), which is a railway bridge that towers dramatically over a canyon with the gushing river at the bottom. Castilla-La Mancha may not have much in the way of cities, but this only makes for even more stunning rural terrain to explore. And best of all, I got to practise my Spanish on Marta and Rafael’s friends, too!

Next weekend, all 6 of us girls are going to Toledo for two nights. We’ve booked ourselves into a very cheap (and possibly rather seedy) hotel, and I really can’t wait.

For now, though, I’ve written more than enough – congratulations if you’ve actually reached the end without falling asleep or giving up to go and make a cup of tea!

¡Hasta luego!