Somewhat Calmer

Almost exactly four months since I moved to Barcelona, the complete upheaval of my entire life is beginning to settle. The flat is beginning to look more homey (though there is a lot of work still to be done in this area), I am getting to know my new job, which is not as scary as I thought, and the money situation has gone from critical to merely concerning. However, the life refurbishment is still far from completed, as the social aspect has gone untouched since I got here. Now that I have a job to complain about and a salary to spend, I have to find some friends to complain to and spend with! Before I had a job there was no money, after I found a job my parents were here, when I started my job I was too exhausted, and now I have run out of excuses. I have to get a social life before I turn into a hermit.

Just after I got the call about the job, I had the incredible fortune that my parents AND my aunt and uncle (my dad's brother Ricardo and his wife Susi) were all in Barcelona AT THE SAME TIME. Unbelievable. Not only that but I was still not working, but with the reassurance that shortly I would be, so I could really have fun, instead of spending the three weeks with them sending CVs and going to interviews. My parents, predictably, spoiled me rotten. The extent of the spoilage, however, was unprecedented and unexpected. They bought me kitchen grills and ham cutters, fixed drawers and clothes lines, helped me buy a suit (and lent me the money for it) and basically showered me with gifts which I am extremely grateful for because we really needed all that stuff and heaven knows when we would have got around to buying measuring spoons or changing the door on the fridge to open on the right hand side. More stuff got fixed in those three weeks than in the entire three months previous. To be fair, this is because poor Erik was working his little ass off at HP all those months and I am about as useful with a screwdriver as a fish is with a bicicle, but it was great to be able to just cross all those little niggly things off the to-do list. Well, Erik's to-do list.

Besides the handyness factor and the spoilage, it was great to see my parents again. The weather was generally kind to us, and although it was chilly and despite the occasional downpour we wandered around the Ciutadella Park, Barceloneta, El Born, El Gotico, and all the touristy stuff you're supposed to do in Barcelona. Mum was horrified at the museum offering: The Tàpies museum (the one she was most looking forward to) is closed until March 2009, the Museum of Contemporary Art was three quarters empty, the Picasso museum only had early works which were not very interesting and the Dalí museum is in Girona and too far. I think out of all the museums in Catalunya the only one she wasn't pissed off by was the CaixaForum. Art lovers destined for Barcelona, beware.

Perhaps the highlight of the stay was when the four of us piled in the car to visit Erik's family in Euskadi. We visited a winery, a cider brewery, we went to Donostia (San Sebastián), we ate and drank like kings all weekend, we had a great time and we came back swearing we would all eat nothing but salad for a week (we didn't). It was a nice break from Barcelona but next time I think I will try to go somewhere closer! The main aim of the trip was achieved however, so now that our parents have met and they don't hate each other we can breathe easy and continue living the way we always have done (far away from both sets).

The day my parents left Barcelona so did I - to do my training week in their Madrid offices with the COO's ex-secretary. I fulfilled a little dream I've always had since I began globe-trotting: flying business class. How was it? Totally disappointing. The only difference I could see between economy and business was the moist towelettes. They didn't even let us on the plane first.

Once in Madrid, it was a gruelling week of meeting thousands of people whose names and roles I am supposed to remember, and trying to orient myself in this enormous, gigantic multinational. I have only ever worked in small companies, the biggest employed about thirty people but most of these were cleaners and not even in the office most of the time. The company employs about 1,500 people, and I don't even work for and I work for the International part, which means my "work colleagues" are mostly in across Europe, not to mention specific cities in th US, Latin America, Asia and Oceania. Needless to say, the culture shock is quite jarring. Used to fending for myself and using my resourcefulness to solve problems and fulfil requests, the idea of picking up a phone and getting someone else to do things for me is strange. Need a flight? Call the travel agency. Need a computer fixed? Call IT. Need a paperclip? Call General Services. I am more a co-ordinator than an implementor just at the moment, which I am getting used to. There are a couple of juicy projects in the near future however, so I am looking forward to sinking my teeth into those. The fact that my bosses are away most of the time is proving to be more of a help than a hindrance; all secretaries know that when your boss is in the office they just generate distractions. "This mouse feels funny, can you get me a bigger one?". "There's too much light in this office". "This thingy isn't working!" (Solution 99% of the time: plug it in). Ok, this is a slight exaggeration, but running the office is much easier when you are by yourself! I am starting to sound like Sir Humphrey aren't I? "Hospitals are much easier to administer without any patients". Golden!

After I got back from Madrid, I got into bed at about 22:30 on Friday night and I didn´t leave it except to eat and pee until 22:00 Saturday night. I also spent a significant part of Sunday sleeping, which for me is extremely unusual - generally on weekends I am up at the crack of dawn wanting to make the most of the limited time I am not a slave to my paycheque. But my body was telling me, quite sternly, that I needed rest and I was too exhausted to do anything but listen.

After Madrid I had a week in the Barcelona office before I set off for Lisbon to oversee a conference involving people from the US, Spain, Portugal, Turkey, Poland, and Brazil. Scary! Thankfully most of the organisation (well, pretty much all) had been done by my counterpart in Lisbon, Claudia, and all I had to do was make sure everything ran properly and fulfil a couple of on the spot requests. Still, it being my first conference, and such a large one, I was nervous, stressed and therefore exhausted when I got home! Thursday and Friday were spent catching up with all the stuff I should have done Mon-Wed, and then BRING ON THE LONG WEEKEND!

This weekend has been rather homey. Erik has been working late shift and has been on call during the nights, which means we haven't ventured far from home. With all the travelling I've been doing and the fact that it is significantly chillier in Barcelona now (though not as cold as Dublin, hahahahahaha!) I was feeling a bit flu-y and relished the domesticity. Friday night I treated Erik to japanese (I had been dying for sushi) and on Saturday we went to Rodrigo's place for lunch and a chat. Saturday night unfortunately was ruined as Erik was called to fix a problem (which should have taken 15 minutes to fix) but the VPN connection to the office wouldn't work - he had to go all the way to Sant Cugat (about half an hour drive out of Barcelona) to fix it and come back. He was furious, and I can understand. I got him in a better mood on Sunday by making scrambled eggs for breakfast (gotta love how easy some people are to please), and in the afternoon we went to the hammam to sweat out all the toxins and relax. Then it was time to satisfy one of my cravings - hamburgers, which I had been desiring since Friday. We made some ridiculously tasty burgers featuring onion, garlic, Worcestershire sauce and fresh chillies. Topped with lettuce and tomato on a sesame seed bun, they were delicious. Thanks Mum and Dad for the electric grill!

Today I had planned to go grocery shopping but since it is a public holiday, the Boquería, Mercadona, Sorli, Carrefour and Alcampo are all closed. Closed closed closed. Cerrado, tancat, itxi, chiuso, fermé. Anything I needed today I should have bought on Saturday. Augh! I understand that everyone needs holidays but enforced holidays for the entire country are just silly! How does anything get done? This is the twenty-first century! I live in a city apartment with limited fridge and pantry space! It is difficult to store many perishable goods and I would like to be able to purchase them on the days I am not working! OK, enough ranting. I am just pissed because I wanted to make peanut cookies and now I cannot buy peanut butter. However, now that I think of it, I do have a huge bag of peanuts and a magimix... ooh, this experiment could go very wrong. I am feeling Tim the Toolman Taylor vibes. But cookies! I want cookies! I'll let you know how it goes...

Drumroll please...

I've been offered a job! Yes, I have finally achieved my goal of re-entering the rat race...ahem, I mean labor market. Well, nothing is signed yet, but the offer is on the table and contractual negotiations begin next week. Woo hoo! The great thing about this offer is that, considering the number of crappy jobs with shitty pay and terrible hours I threw my CV at, it's pretty amazing that when I finally got an offer, it was for one of the most high-end jobs I applied for. Like, the ones you think might be a little out of your league, but you apply anyway hoping for the stars to align and deliver your dream job to you on a silver platter. That's pretty much what happened here. They were looking for someone with WAY more experience than me (like, three times more) but as for the rest of the profile I think I fit it pretty well. The pay is something like what I was earning in Dublin, so for Barcelona, it is quite a decent salary indeed. It is very much like my EA job at Genesis, but in a larger, multinational company where the directors are travelling 99% of the time. Actually, the selection process went a lot like the Genesis one: a positive first interview, what I thought was a horrendous second interview, being completely convinced they were never going to give me the job, them offering me the job, me being completely surprised, and then wondering "shit - can I really do this?". Last time it turned out I could, quite easily, so hopefully things should work themselves out in a similar manner this time around.

The timing of all this couldn't be better. Firstly, I was starting to lose hope a little bit, at least that I would find something soon. Everyone kept telling me to be patient, with stories like "Well, don't worry, it took me four months to find a job." "Four months? It took me six months!" and other horrors that did little to lift my morale. I was just settling into the idea that this was going to take a LOT longer than I originally thought, and yesterday I went around to some restaurants and cafés in the Ramblas area to see if I could get some part time waitressing work to tide me over. To be honest I was even looking forward to waitressing for a little while - I like having a job that requires you to be active, and sitting in front of a computer all day can get boring. I'm sure after two or three weeks I would have remembered all the reasons I hated waitressing, but having been out of work since August, and time healing all wounds, it didn't seem like a bad option at all. I even did a trial for a couple of hours at a café this afternoon, which I think went well, but sod that, I have a real job now! It was nice to be able to earn a little cash in hand though, and it's not like I had anything else to do with my day. Other than sit in front of the computer and send CVs of course, like every other weekday for two months. After I got out of there I scored another interview (I have two now on Monday that I am not sure I am going to attend), and was feeling pretty buoyant. Then they called me and told me I had the job there, and then I went from buoyant to airborne.

The other great thing about getting the offer just now is that it's gonna take about 10-15 days for me to actually start working, what with the contract signing, getting stuff ready, et cetera. Normally I wouldn't really care much about that, although days off are generally a good thing. But now it's especially fabulous as my mum is coming to visit me tomorrow and my dad is coming next week, so I'll even get some time with them before I start working. Is that perfect or what? I can barely believe it. Let's hope the run of good luck continues!

One conversation, three ways.

Stationery - not as straightforward as you might think. I went to the newsagent today, with a short and specific list of requirements. Four sheets of red A4 paper, a Glue-Stick, contact for books, a letter stencil, and a Stanley Knife. This is how the transaction would have gone in Melbourne:

Me: Hi, I´ve found most of the things I need, but where do you have the contact?
Stationery Lady: It's over by the wrapping paper, third isle.
Me: Oh, I see it.
Stationery Lady: That'll be eleven dollars thirty nine cents thanks love.
Me: Thanks! Bye!

Everyone's a winner.

This is how the transaction would have gone in Dublin:

Me: Hi, I've found the glue here, but I need red paper, contact, a letter stencil, and a Stanley knife.
Stationery Lady (in thick North Dub accent): Contact? I don't have any of that now, we only stock it in September. The schoolbooks, you know. Red paper...is it somebody's birthday? No? Just a minute dear. Oh, no, well we have orange or yellow, will that suit you? Oh, I'm sorry. What was that other thing you said? Knife? We don't sell knives here any more, not after that young wan, your man from Limerick, don't remember his name now, used one of them things to cut the heads off all his sister's Bratz dolls. Good idea if you ask me, I hate those Bratz, they're unnatural. I know Argos sells knives though, you could try them.
Me: Just the glue then.
Stationery Lady: That'll be eleven euro thirty five cents.
Me: Thanks! Bye!

Well, I didn't get what I wanted that time, but at least I escape the situation with minimal or no embarrassment.

So, this afternoon I went to the newsagent for that list of items, with one small problem: I don't know the Spanish word for Stanley Knife. Or stencil. Or contact. Or glue. Here is a pretty much verbatim conversation from this afternoon, translated of course:

Me (start with the easy thing): Hi there, I'd like some red paper please.
Stationery lady: Wrapping paper?
Me: No, just regular A4. But red.
Stationery Lady: How many?
Me: Four please.
Stationery Lady: Here you go.
Me: I'm also looking for that plastic thing, to cover books?
Stationery Lady: *puzzled look*
Me: You know, it's plastic, and it's sticky on one side, you stick it on books to protect them...
Stationery Lady: Oh that! No, we don't have that.
Me (starting to get flustered): OK. Well actually, I also need...a plastic thing to draw letters...
Stationery Lady: *puzzled look*
Me: (now with other patient customer waiting in the background and listening in) You know, it's plastic, and you put the pencil inside it, it helps you to draw letters...
Stationery Lady: A stencil?
Me: Yes! A Stencil! That's it!
Stationery Lady (rummaging in drawer): How about this?
Me: Do you have anything bigger?
Stationery Lady: What about this one?
Me: That one has more letters, but I need one with fatter letters.
Stationery Lady: Well, this is the only one I have.
Me: OK, never mind that then. Er, I need, um, well, you use it to stick stuff together...
Stationery Lady: *puzzled look*
Me (spying packet of superglue): Like this, but not as strong.
Stationery Lady: For paper?
Me: Yes, for paper.
Stationery Lady (pulling out Glue-Stick): Like this?
Me: Yes, just like that.
Stationery Lady: The big one or the small one?
Me: The small one please.
Stationery Lady: Is that all?
Me (with my bag of four red A4 sheets and mini Glue-Stick): Yes, that's it.
Stationery Lady: That'll be three euro and twenty cents.
Me: Here you go. Thanks very much!
Stationery Lady: You're welcome!

Ran out of the door, cheeks ablaze and resolving to improve my stationery vocabulary. Needless to say I wasn't valiant enough to attempt the Stanley Knife.

Kaixo!

Well, not too much has changed since the last post. I'm still unemployed, still worried about it (though I have three interviews scheduled for next week, so the worry is somewhat mitigated) and I still have all my fingers and toes intact after a small kitchen mishap this morning involving our gas cooker and the sleeve of my bathrobe. Erik has been extremely supportive, which helps a lot. He helps with my cover letters, offers to iron my hair, and tells me "you did an amazing job" when I get a "Dear Jane" rejection letter. I would survive this on my own too, but having Erik makes this situation a lot easier to bear. My family has helped loads, not only with encouragement, but also translating my CV (thanks to mum, dad, Rodrigo and Erik, it was a real collaborative effort). I think the end of the dark tunnel must be near (it just has to be, ok?) and one day I will look back on this and say hahaha, I was so worried and look how great everything turned out in the end. Of course there is also the possibility that I will look back to now and think "Oh, and I thought that was tough!", but I prefer not to think about that possibility.

Although I am still out of work, stuff is still happening. We've still been going out at the weekends (although now that is over until I find a job), and I've been out and about to interviews, which gives me a chance to enjoy the gorgeous sunshine. One new thing I've started: Basque classes. I wanted to learn a bit of Basque, both for the fun of it and also that way I can get a little closer to Erik's culture and where he comes from. I know that living in Catalunya I should really be learning Català (Catalan), rather than Euskara (Basque), but really the Catalunyans are so indignant about the necessity of everyone to speak Català that I feel like not learning it just to spite them. Anyway, Català is very similar to Castellano (Spanish) so I am sure that after a while I will pick it up without ever having to shell out a cent for classes. Well, after a fashion.

So, I decided to study Euskara (Basque), and since we happen to be located in Barcelona, I have to study it here. The only language school that offers Euskara here is the
Escola Oficial d'Idiomes Barcelona (Official Language School of Barcelona) which has the added benefit of being heavily subsidised by the government so it is very very cheap. This is handy for me right now. I wasn't going to sign up as it's a bit ridiculous to be spending money on classes now, but otherwise I would have had to wait until February and my impulsive nature just can't wait that long.

The process of signing up for classes is drawn-out and complicated. First, you have to pre-register via the web. Then they do a draw, to see which of the applicants actually get a place on the course. This is completely down to luck, I met a guy who waited six (six!!) semesters before finally getting to study Japanese. If you get a place, you have to show up IN PERSON to the school at a particular day and time to register. Too bad if you work or have other commitments, because clearly learning languages should be your top priority and if you can't move around your entire calendar just to accomodate your language school registration you aren't taking it seriously enough. If you don't show up, your place goes to one of the people on the waiting list who didn't get a place in the draw, you have to wait until the next semester, and everybody gives a big cheer for the rigidity of Spanish (and Cataluñan) bureaucracy.

I was lucky enough to be chosen in the draw, but I almost wasn't able to register given that I turned up to the registration at the wrong time (thankfully early rather than late), without any of the necessary forms completed, or any photocopies of my ID. I managed to go home, get my forms, get the IDs photocopied and get back there in time to register. I got the class I wanted (19:00-21:00) and I breathed a sigh of relief. Right, I was registered, I was paid up. So now, what exactly is the story with the classes?

First of all, I figured that since this language school is strictly for people learning a language for non-curricular purposes (you are not allowed to study the same language you are studying in school) that the courses would take it kind of easy, a little bit at a time, poc a poc. Turns out the classes are two hours, three times a week. With six hours of Euskara a week, I'll be fluent in no time. It feels like a fairly heavy schedule, but in for a penny in for a pound, right?

So, I rock up to the first class, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and the teacher starts to talk...in Català. My assumption that the classes would be in Castellano (Spanish) was a bit silly, in hindsight, given that a) this is Catalunya and b) all the website, documentation, registration etc. was in Catalá, but, c'est la vie, n'est-ce pas? After I got over my initial shock and actually started to concentrate on what the teacher was saying, it turned out I could understand her pretty well, if not perfectly. Luckily Català and Castellano are very similar, and it doesn't hurt that I know a little French as well as Català borrows a lot from French and Italian. In the end I consoled myself that I am getting two classes for the price of one: learning Català and Euskara at the same time. The only downside is that almost all of the students are Catalan - making friends in class is difficult when you don't speak Català, although everyone in the room speaks Castellano. Thankfully there is a Russian chick who also doesn't speak a word of Català, so I have a buddy. Most of the people in the class (90% female) are pretty friendly, except for one girl who shall remain nameless who is a total bitch and a smartarse who thinks she is brilliant at Euskara already but I just make sure to sit across the room from her. I absolutely love the teacher - although she speaks in Català she does plenty of hand gestures and non-verbal body language which help LOADS for me to understand her. She is Euskalduna (Basque) but has studied Català (obviously) and also speaks French, English and is now studying Japanese (the reason for this escapes me, but has something to do with wanting to study something as foreign to her as Euskara is to us). She is totally Euskalduna-looking, petite and slender with short, pixie-style hair and pixie-style clothes (I don't know how else to describe them, picture a pair of jeans and a long black t-shirt with a jagged hem, slitted sleeves and a chunky belt) a wide smile and a friendly demeanor. Anyway she is a really fun teacher who makes the class a pleasure to attend. I hope I get her for future courses!

I am learning a little at a time, the course goes fairly slowly as there are 35 of us. Grammar in Euskara is weird and unlike anything I have seen before - the language doesn't have articles or prepositions (things like the, a, in, at, from), but instead they declinate the nouns with different suffixes. For example, the city Bilbao is Bilbo, but if you want to say in Bilbao, it's Bilbon; in Barcelona is Bartzelonan, in Melbourne is Melbournen. From Melbourne is Melbournekoa. Weird stuff like that. It's fun, I always liked the grammatical part of learning languages, so this is super entertaining, only it's quite hard to remember it all! Kaixo, in case you were wondering, is "Hello", and you say it "kai-sho", with the accent on the "sho". I won't bore you with any more Euskara lessons, suffice to say it is worth visiting Euskadi (the Basque Country), especially the coast which is really beautiful. The food is also very good there, lots of seafood (tuna and cod in particular) and of course the ever-famous pintxos. I have only really seen Donosti (San Sebastian), Mallabia (Erik's town) and Bilbo (Bilbao), so there is a lot to be discovered even for me. Every turned stone when learning about the Basque culture yields surprises and delight, it really is a fascinating place and people, with a long and politically charged history which I won't go into now because a) I would be here all night and b) I don't know anything about it (though that never stopped me before).

Tomorrow, another interview, another batch of cookies (gingerbread this time). I am beginning to find out where to get all the strange things I require for my varied kitchen, La Boqueria is proving to be very useful for everything from dried spices to molasses to cornstarch, which for some reason is not available in any supermarket I have been to. Nobody so far seems to have tamarind paste, though they do sell whole tamarinds...if anyone has any idea how to make tamarind paste out of tamarinds, I would appreciate advice. Today I had a bit of a fright at the chicken shop, they only had chickens with the head and feet still attached! I thought I was going to have to google "dismembering chickens" when I got home, but when I bought it they cut them off, phew. Of course, sly things that they are they weighed the chicken before cutting it up, and thus added a couple hundred grams to the price.

Funny how you can take one thing, say a tomato. In some countries they sell them whole and would look at you funny if you wanted it canned. Here in Spain I had trouble finding canned chopped tomato, as most of the tomato here is either fried or pulped. In Aus you get the fresh kind, chopped, passata, loads of stuff. Depends on the culture. I use powdered ginger, parsley, basil and coriander (though I use the fresh stuff when I have it), but I would never dream of using powdered onion or garlic, and I don't even have them in the house. I'm sure in India nobody uses powdered coriander. It's just about what you are used to.

I am getting used to doing interviews in Castellano - in fact yesterday I did one in English and it felt very strange! I have gone through my CV so many times I can do it all by heart, but it feels good to be going through this process, I am learning a lot about the job market and my Castellano is improving in leaps and bounds. I am SO glad I didn't move to Barcelona six months after Dublin as planned - I wouldn't have found a job anywhere with my pitiful Spanish at the time! I'll be fine as long as I don't have to interview in Euskara...

Gabon!

Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to interviews we go!

So, we had our "vacation", and then I started my other vacation, i.e., being unemployed. Vacation it is not - first of all we had to find a place to live. We were shacked up in a hotel in Sabadell for the first two weeks on the company account, so I put my energies into finding a flat. The price of living is not too bad in Barcelona, but the rents are very high. We saw a lot of dumps and a lot of really great apartments, all for around the same price. We tried using an agency, but they charge a month's rent as fees, which is an astronomical sum. The agency itself was hilarious though, I thought I was trapped in an episode of Moonlighting. Everything about the place screamed 1960s: the old guys, the shirts, the décor, the rolodex (this is the 21st century people, scribbling on little cards is out; computers and BlackBerries are in). They showed me a couple of places but they were in keeping with the agency style - dated. Anyway there's very little chance I would pay the fee, so we kept looking on idealista.com, which is the best way to find a flat in Spain, if anyone is looking.

After I'd seen about seven places, finally we stumbled on one that looked perfect; the location is great, (right next to Ciutadella Park), the apartment looked refurbished, it has an elevator (walking up five floors with your arms full of groceries does not a fun afternoon make) and most importantly, we could afford it. I made an appointment right away to see it, and for me it was love at first sight. Erik took a little longer to come around, because the current tenant was moving, and the place was really dirty. Really dirty, like "Do you own a vacuum cleaner or what?" type dirty. But eventually he saw that underneath the cap of grime there was a great apartment, all double glazed windows (it's quiet as a mouse and will be very warm in winter) small but functional bathroom, and a huge and very well equipped kitchen with gas stove (yay). I think what sold him is the terrace - it's not a private one by any means, but it is a roof terrace and it might be nice to have a couple of drinks up there one night. Anyway we told Sonia we were interested in it, and the following weekend we moved in.

In exchange for moving in early we had to clean the apartment, which suited us fine as knowing Erik we would have cleaned the thing from top to bottom anyway. We spent the entire weekend cleaning, obviously the guy who lived here previously didn't know what a sponge was because the place was filthy. But now we live in a great, clean apartment in the middle of Barcelona! It still doesn't feel like home, as we need some pictures on the walls, or some kind of decoration. With the walls still blank I feel a little like I'm in a sanatorium, but the homey will come in time (and money).

Anyway, since we got the apartment sorted, I've been looking for a job. A little half-heartedly at first (who wants to go to work, right?) but now the reality is starting to set in; rent on apartment, bills, food, internet connection, crisis in the Spanish job market, and I am starting to get nervous. That said, I've been called for three interviews in two weeks, so my hit rate hasn't been too bad, if not great. What really isn't great is the pay. The crisis has really hit wages, and even with my experience I don't know if I can even match my Dublin salary, let alone increase it. Still, if I can get by for a few months, I can look for a better job later. And I have my savings, so I can at least pay rent and eat for some months ahead. I had the same feeling when I got to Dublin and was looking for a job, and I found one in a couple of weeks. But this is slightly different, the job market is much bleaker, Spanish is not my native language (although I am fluent), I don't have a notion of Catalan (which excludes me from 99% of admin jobs) and, well, I'm inclined to be picky regarding which job I take. But there has been some hopeful signals, it's not all doom and gloom. And, at the very least, while I am unemployed, the sun still shines and the clouds deviate to Ireland. Because being unemployed in the rain would have me heading for the nearest euthanasia clinic. And waving goodbye to Erik from the comfort of my bed as he goes off to earn our bread and butter is corroding me with guilt.

Barcelona itself is lovely, not huge like Paris or New York, but old style. There are very few green areas thanks to the drought, so thank goodness we live next to a park. With this, that and the other, including going to the Basque country last weekend we still haven't been to the beach, but we will get there eventually :) It is the first city I have lived in that has an underground system (not counting when I lived in Buenos Aires). That really is handy, especially in the rare chance it rains. Even with the underground you end up walking around quite a lot, especially if, like me, you are out of work and spend your time going to interviews, doing the grocery shopping, mailing letters, etc. Oh, if only I could lead this life of leisure forever, but, considering I haven't even bought a lottery ticket yet, I guess I'll have to jump back on the merry-go-round. Sigh.

Our One Week Vacation

Well, so here we are in Spain. When we touched down at Bilbao with yet another sixty kilos (and some) of crap we amassed in Dublin, Erik's mum and sister were there to welcome us. We drove home (well, Erik drove us home, but this time in his relatively new, gorgeous and huge Picasso!) We got home, unloaded all our stuff, had dinner and chilled out, as the next day we were all piling in the car to rack up some more ks on the road. This time from Mallabia (Erik's hometown) to Ourense, which is in Galicia, some 600k away. The reason? Erik's grandmother had her stomach removed (yes, removed, not operated on) due to a tumor. You never know how these things will turn out, so even though Erik only had one week of vacation time, we headed up for three days for him to get a chance to see her. I won't go into details of the trip, as 1) it's mostly a lot of waiting around in hospitals which is not really blog fodder and 2) this stuff is private and belongs to other people, so I feel I should respect that. I will mention though, one spectacular afternoon walk in the mountains, gorgeous food, and Yini, Erik's grandparents' dog, who is a lot of fun to play with, just like a little kid. We came back a couple of kilos heavier, but a little stressed out. Back to Mallabia by Wednesday, Alazne (Erik's sister) had a hot date so we burned rubber the 600k back to get here there on time!

From then on we had one day to chill out and hang out with Erik's mates. It was fiestas in Mallabia and on Thursday we went to see a pelotamano (handball) game. These crazy Basques have their own games, this one is a bit like sqash only you hit the ball with your hand instead of a raquet, and to add a bit of madness to the whole thing, the ball has a rock in it. Other popular Basque sports are lifting heavy rocks, and chopping wood. Even the kids have championships in it. After the match we had a go at some beers, and I had a go at Basque dancing. Erik has a video of it but I'm not posting it here, you'll have to bribe it out of me. I wasn' t the lightest on my feet by far but it was my first time! The live band played some Basque pop (weird) and we had a sing and a dance before the ritual stopover at the Mallabia bakery on the way home. Mmmm, fresh croissants.

Friday was packing, buying, sorting, shifting, messing, cleaning, folding, eating, moving, lifting, dropping, smashing, crying....well, not quite. But it was busy, and stressful. We didn't make it to the rock lifting but we did catch up for dinner with some mates of Erik, one of whom's wife was about to have a baby. Actually as I write I think they were going to induce the birth yesterday! So he's probably a proud daddy by now. Saturday we were in the car by 11:00 AM, amidst some tears (Erik's mum's) and sighs of relief (everyone else's) and on our way to Barcelona. Guess who drove?

So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen good night!

They say "The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain", but despite the lovely assonance, the phrase is delightfully untrue. While lots of Ireland (as far as I know Dublin, Cork and Limerick, but who knows what else) is being inundated with floods (and who here is surprised?), here in Barcelona we have nothing, nothing but glorious, yellow, melanoma-inducing sun. And Barcelona is pretty damn flat, so you can forget all about the rain on the plain nonsense.

Anyway, I´m getting ahead of myself. Last you all heard I was about to head off into the rolling hills of Ireland for my last look at the Emerald Isle. Erik came to pick me up at work on Friday night after some emotional (but thankfully not teary) goodbyes at work and we drove all the way to Cork. Well, Erik drove all the way to Cork, I can´t drive manual cars. When we got there I was absolutely beat, so we just headed up to the dorm room for a nap. Who should I find in there but a self-confessed bogan from Townsville, Qld, who I immediately took a shine to and we gasbagged for about two hours until the others arrived at the hostel. Although I do my best to avoid Australians overseas, it still is nice when you meet one once in a while and you can share some cultural history! We went down to the bar with Raúl, Elena and the gang and had a beer, at which point the others went pubcrawling and I stayed in the bar to finish my one beer, with the intention of very soon vacating the bar and finishing my book and my nap upstairs. A drunk redhead from Northern Ireland didn´t figure in my plans, but that´s life...he proceeded to earbash me until I finally made my exuses and headed up to my bed. Advice for any single guys out there: If you want to talk to a chick, a) don´t be drunk, and b) make the conversation interesting. Going on about about how you hate your job and how many times you moved from Scotland to Northern Ireland and back does not a fun night make.

Next morning I was up and at 'em...the others not so much. It took them sooooo long (I'm talking time measured in hours here) to get ready that Erik and I took off without them. We wandered around Cork for the morning, took in the English Market, which was very interesting, especially for the food-obsessed! Also went to the Gaol, which I thought was very interesting, if a little corny. I don´t think the others were convinced. Cork is very charming, I´d recommend anyone wanting to move to Ireland to seriously consider living there instead of Dublin. It´s practically the same, only smaller, more traditional Irish, and cheaper.

In the afternoon it was the long drive to Kerry, and for me another multi-hour battle to stay awake. The movement of the car puts me right to sleep, but I try to stay awake to entertain Erik a little bit! We chat a little, laugh a little, eat a little, swear at the lack of signage a little...

We get to Kerry in time to check in at the hostel and make a delicious spaghetti bolognaise. Then we had some Guinness outside under the stars, with a guitar. Erik and I were tired so we went to bed before the others, who were well sloshed by the time they fell into bed! Consequently Erik and I were up practically at the crack of dawn and were showered and finished breaky by the time the others were up. They were going to the Ring of Kerry so we bade them farewell and set off to discover Dingle, only a short drive away. We decided to go horseriding, and were undeterred by the sudden downpour of sheets of rain from the skies. This is Ireland, after all! It should disappear in the time it takes for you to drink a cup of coffee, and it did. The afternoon was gorgeous as we mounted our rides and set off into the hills. They didn´t let us trot or anything, so the horse riding itself was kind of boring, but the views were fantastic and the weather corroborated so we had a great time.

After we dismounted we headed straight for Doolin, which is half way to what we thought was our destination, Galway. We tried to go up the west coast of Ireland, which is extraordinarily beautiful, something like the Great Ocean Road. But there was a prang about an hour into the drive, and we had to turn back and drive all the way back to Dingle. Later it transpired that we had been going the wrong way anyway, so that was a blessing in disguise. That was just the beginning. We took wrong turns, the journey was longer than we thought, the ferry wasn´t where we thought it was, etc. etc. I´ll save you the long boring story and give you the short version: We ended up in Doolin after dark, mentally exhausted, irritable and hungry. At that hour, 22:00, the only food you can get in Doolin is a skanky Chinese, so skanky Chinese it was. Then we headed to the pub for a pint, as per Irish law. Only one pint though, as Erik was particularly wrecked from all the driving, which was a shame as a traditional Irish singalong had started up in the bar and the atmosphere was very jolly, although us and the barmen were the only people under 50.

The next day we got up early and headed for Galway to catch the ferry to the Aaran Islands. Only when we were half way there, our friend Noel rang and informed us there´s a ferry to the islands from Doolin! Erik was fuming, especially when we made it to Galway and it turned out there were no more ferries we could take that day. I didn´t mind, I´d only been to Galway once, three years ago and under the cover of darkness, so I was quite happy just to explore the town, which really is quite cute.

Not wanting to spend the night in Galway and another day that we really needed to pack, we headed back into the car and poor Erik drove us all the way back to Dublin. We got back tired but contented, at least we had bid farewell properly to the island that had been our home for the last three years, and had been the catalyst for our relationship.

For those of you that are interested in that sort of thing, here is a vague routeplan of where we went:



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The next day we only slept in a little bit (we were tired!) and headed off to Newgrange, which turned out to be an ancient mound tomb from one million BC or something. Actually the site was really interesting, the tomb is 100% pitch black inside and they do a simulation of how the light comes into the tomb on the solstice, which, for me, is just as good as the real thing. Also they have a little Newgrange museum next door, which has really great and interactive exhibitions. The entry price is about €7 or something, so well worth it.

We gave the car back that afternoon, and from there on in it was four days of hectic packing, sending stuff, and farewell dinners until *whoosh*...the plane took off and we had no plans to return.

Travel and Food - the great loves of my life

I'm moving to Barcelona in one and a half weeks but it doesn't feel like it. I'm still at work, my room in the house still isn´t rented (starting to worry me now) and I haven´t packed anything yet. Life continues as per usual. This weekend is a Bank Holiday so I don´t think it will really hit me until I get up on Tuesday morning and I don´t have to go to work. Then it will be four days of mad organisation until Saturday when we get on the plane to Bilbao.

Erik and I have planned a weekend away to take our final look at the Irish countryside, which, let´s face it, is a million times nicer than Dublin. First down the middle of the country to Cork, then up the west coast through Dingle to the Aran Islands (which I have never been to but everyone says they are beautiful) and then home. Annoyingly, this weekend is the Galway Races (biggest social event of the year) and practically all affordable accommodation in Clare and Galway is booked. Despite the race chaos we have booked a darling B&B for Sunday and the rest of the time will be spent in hostel dorms - uncomfortable but affordable. Plus some friends are going to be in Cork and Dingle with us, so I´d say time spent in the hostel will be minimal. I´ve got to get all the Guinnesses I can into me before I fly away!

On Tuesday morning we´ve planned to head out to Newgrange, which is not too far from Dublin if you have a car. It´s like the Irish version of Stonehenge, or something...well, to be completely honest I don´t really have a clue what it is, but it´s famous and I´ve done all the other crap you´re supposed to do in Oirland (kissing the Blarney stone, the cliffs of Moher, the Ring of Kerry, the Giant´s Causeway, the Burren, etc.) so I´d better just complete the set. I remember when I first came to Ireland a half drunk Irish lad said he´d drive me out there if I showed him my chest - an offer I politely declined.

Right now my new obsession is food. Anyone that knows me will think, hang on Lucia, that´s hardly news, you've always been a pig...*ahem*...I mean, obsessed with food. But I´m coming at it from a slightly different angle - while I still enjoy the consumption aspect of food (and how!) I am becoming ever more interested in the preparation side. It´s gotten to the point where Erik is beginning to wonder aloud why one person would need so many cookbooks (it´s only just occurred to me what a wonderful fusion that is; reading, and cooking). To be fair, he didn´t bat an eyelid when I came home the other day with a hardback, 640 page "Darina Allen´s Cookery Course", hardly practical when every gram of possessions we own have to be hauled 1000 km to Bilbao. But it is a gorgeous book, with both simple and complicated recipies, lots of useful tips, information on how to select the freshest and the best ingredients, and a conversational style which makes you think it´s your aunt in the kitchen with you making the dish. Not to mention the food porn, which is not too abundant (nothing disappoints like a cookbook with more pictures than recipes) but very appealing. Talking about food porn - I´ve recently become aware of the existence of food blogs. They always floated on the periphery of my concience but now they have become a serious threat to my day-to-day productivity levels. My current favourite: Cream Puffs In Venice. Oh god the cakes. I went through a big biscuit phase last year but I think my next project is definitely cupcakes. I expect the icing to present a challenge but I am ready for the long hard slog in the kitchen. I just hope to make friends quicky in Barca because I don´t want to eat them all myself!

All this recipe obsession coupled with the fact I´ll be living in Barcelona, home of the world-famous La Boqueria market, will mean Erik´s stomach will be facing some trials in the months ahead - I forsee liver, duck eggs and rabbit stew in the near future. As long as he doesn´t get food poisoning I´m happy.

For now we´re subsisting on stuff we´ve previously frozen, cans of asparagus, olives, tuna and roast peppers, pasta, and basically anything we´ve got in the cupboards and don´t want to take with us. So I´d say any home cooked, complete meal we get in Spain will be a welcome change, even if it is liver!

Hello Everybody!

It's been over a year since my last post. A lot, as can be imagined, has happened to me since then. I can barely even remember who I was at that point. Just turned 25, in Ireland 2 years, just beginning my job in Market Research, living with Laura and Shelly in our gorgeous Parnell Street apartment (ridiculously cheap), and still terminally single. The last post I wrote was about Egypt (what a great experience that was) and coming back from there back to Ireland was, to say the least, a bit of a bummer. Cold and wet, we had the worst summer in the collective living memories of all the Irish people I know. Official Bulletin from Met Éireann - 59 days of consecutive rain in May/June/July. And when it wasn't raining (which, as you can see, was not very often), it was cold, grey, and gloomy. Dublin isn't a nice city in the rain, and, funnily enough, the Irish haven´t really come up with anything exciting you can do inside while it's bucketing down. In Ireland, you will find most people in a pub on a rainy day. That said, you will probably find most Irish people in a pub on a sunny day, but that´s beside the point. Which is, due to all the grime and gloom of the faux Irish "summer", I was totally depressed and sick of Dublin.

Thankfully, here in Europe the sun is never far away, so Tania, my Russian friend and I planned a trip to Dubrovnik, Croatia. Across the Adriatic from Italy, Croatia has all the sunshine but a tenth of the tourists (though there were a lot). Tania and I swam in the sea every day, playing the "Find the Warm Current" game. There are a mix of warm and cold currents in the Adriatic, so you can swim out to sea and find a patch of water that is nice and warm, and play there. Move two inches to the left, and you're suddenly in icy waters. The beaches in Dubrovnik are all pebble beaches, which I was disappointed at at first, but in the end turned out fabulous - all the fun of a beach, without finding sand in your hair, shoes, ears, bumcrack etc. for the next two weeks. It was 30 degrees every day and we soaked up every ray of gleaming, roasting sunshine. One day we took a boat out to the islands, one of which we were on almost by ourselves. It was a lovely way to relax and get away from it all, literally! The only other people on the island were an old lady who was in charge of the kitchen (she made us lunch) and two men that sat at the other end of the island and talked about football. The other good part of the trip was going with a group of young ones on a sea kayaking trip. The kayaking itself was a little tiring, but afterwards we went out for pizza and drinks and had a grand time making new friends - a Venezuelan, a German, and two Canadians. Dubrovnik's night life left a little to be desired - all the clubs were full of 17 year olds that that looked like they had more dollars than sense. Where did we end up then? Please forgive me but it's true - the Irish pub. I'm sorry, but it had the best craic in Dubrovnik! And we made friends with the barmen, who gave us free drinks, so what more could you ask? We also befriended an English woman who had always wanted to come to Dubrovnik and never did because nobody wanted to come with her - finally she just said "F**k it, I'm going by myself!", which I think is great. Travelling by yourself is fabulously liberating, but a lot of people are just too scared to try it.

Back from Dubrovnik and into the rest of the Irish "summer" (it's depressing me now just remembering it) and then into the Irish autumn and winter. Winter can be fun when it's snowy, full of hot chocolate and firesides and that cool thing when you breathe out and all the frost comes out of your mouth. But after the summer of below 10 degrees, constant rain and grey skies the prospect of facing another six months of chilly fingers and wet coats was about enough to make me run for the anti-depressant bottle. Then, in September, we (my flatmates and I) got a large shock. Our apartment was being sold and we had to be out of it in one month! Laura, my Spanish flatmate, was moving to New York so she wasn't worried, but Shelly and I started looking straight away for a new apartment. We soon realised that we had been living in an unparalleled paradise - also known as a brand new and gorgeous apartment in the centre of Dublin for 400 euro a month. All the similar apartments we found were twice the price, or too far away to be any use (I walked to work, so moving further out would cause problems). In the end we never found an apartment to rent, so we ended up moving into separate places with other people. I found one around the corner from Parnell Street, smaller, older, and 150% of the price. I paid it anyway, thinking I would stay only a couple of months until I found something better. It place was pretty awful: when I arrived there was no table in the living room (my flatmates ate their dinner on their laps in front of the TV, you see what kind of people we are dealing with here); there was no kettle; the shower was old, dirty and the pressure was like having snowflakes fall on your head; there was a gross smell in the kitchen, my room was awkwardly shaped; I didn't have enough storage space for my things...will I continue? My flatmates were kind and all, but hardly people I could become friends with. And because it was old, and not very well insulated (the windows were appalling) it was very very cold. I found living in a place that was not comfortable completely irritating to all aspects of my life. I would complain all the time at work and I wasn't sleeping well. Something had to be done, so about a month before I left for my holidays in Melbourne in December I told the guys I would not be back when I returned from Down Under. Where did I move? That story will come a little later.

But I was going home for the first time in two years and a half! Mummy! Daddy! Miro! My friends! Not only that, I was escaping the depths of the Irish winter (unbearably cold and damp by that point) for the height of the Australian summer: Beaches, bikinis, skirts, sweat, flies and summer sales, here I come!

The flight was...long. 48 hours long. Unfortunately the cheapest flight I could get was 1700 euros (no, that is not a typographical error, seventeen hundred euro) so in the interests of not emptying my bank account I had to take it, even though I had a 14 hour stop at Kuala Lumpur. Well, at least now I can add Malaysia to "Countries crossed off my 'To Visit' List" list! I was flying though Paris Charles de Gaulle as well, now officially declared by me to be the world's most confusing airport (worse than Barajas). Tunnels that go on forever, signs that point nowhere, directions that stop half way to your destination, unhelpful staff and a ridiculous queue at passport control all make the transit experience extremely unpleasant. Finally I found the gate I was supposed to check in at, and got on to the Malaysian Air flight to KL. I got there early in the morning, dumped my bags and went out to explore the city. First surprise for me - no Euros in KL. I know you are thinking "Oh my god, Lucia, you complete idiot", but when you've lived the last 2 and a half years with the single European currency, you tend to forget about the slight inconvenience of changing money at international borders! Got some ringgits out of the ATM and to the city. The airport lassies tried to flog me a bus to the city for 45 ringgits, but I took the normal people's bus for 10. As a seasoned traveller I never trust the slick, makeup-laden "guides" at airports, they just want to take your money! I found my way into the city and started to explore. I didn't like KL much to be honest. It's smoky, industrial, noisy, dirty, cheap (the nasty kind of cheap, not the bargain type of cheap) and generally not very aesthetic. I wondered around for a bit until I got tired, and walked past a massage parlour where they did the usual sales job on me. I gave in because I love massages, and compared to Dublin where you pay 60 euro an hour, it was extremely cheap. Did I mention I had fourteen hours or so to kill?

Later on I went back to the airport, checked in for my flight, and proceeded to remain bored stupid for the next million hours until my plane landed in Melbourne. I think I watched some movie, a ridiculous drama where Catherine Zeta-Jones is a nasty chef who adopts her niece when her sister dies in a car accident. Of course she falls in love with the handsome Italian sous chef who works alongside her, the niece loves him and in the end the three of them have a restaurant together. The usual moronic Hollywood cliches, made worse by Zeta-Jones's typical wooden acting. I probably slept a bit as well, until I finally touched down at Tullamarine at 8 or so AM, Dec 19 (I had left on the 17th). Mum, Dad, Miro and his girlfriend Julie were all there to meet me and we had a lovely hug and kiss session for about five hours (you know Latin families). We made our way back to the house, which I hadn't seen in two and a half years. It was great, I didn't feel like any time had passed at all, it was like I'd been away on a long vacation, like a month or something. The only thing that I noticed right away that was different was the television. Sometime between my leaving and coming back my parents had bought a ginormous 50 inch television screen! I've gotten used in Ireland to not watching any TV however (imagine badly made, low budget children's television, but in Gaelic and other such horrors) so after the initial shock I proceeded to pay it little attention.

First on the agenda - my parents had asked me what I wanted to do when I got home, and since I hadn't been to a beach since Dubrovnik, I begged them to take us to the seaside. Mum went to a lot of effort to book a lovely resort in Lorne, five minutes' walk from the beach, and the photos she sent me of it almost had me drooling from my desktop here in Dublin. And it would have been absolutely fantastic, if I hadn't had the inconsideration to bring the weather with me from the Emerald Isle. It rained for three days non stop so for the entire time we spent a total of about 10 minutes enjoying the sand under a grim and ominous sky. The rest of the time? Well, there was a pool and sauna in the resort (so we did swim at least) and, well, thank god for the video library. The best thing about it was just enjoying being back in Australia. Even the most civilised accents sound completely ocker when you've been away for over two years. Speaking of civilisation, I felt like I was back in it. Dublin may be a city and the IT capital of Europe and all that but in some things it is lagging sorely behind the rest of the world. The first morning I woke up ridiculously early thanks to the jet lag, and my father, who gets up ridiculously early most days for a reason I cannot fathom, suggested we go for a coffee. I replied that there was no way any coffee shops were going to be open until 9am, let alone at 10 to 7 in the morning. Clearly I had forgotten that in Melbourne, good coffee is about as essential to life as oxygen and supply channels have to be open during all possible waking hours. We got to the coffee shop/bakery at 7 and sure enough, it was open. Melbourne 1, Dublin 0. Later in the day, in the same bakery, I spied out of the corner of my eye, those lovely soft sponges coated in chocolate and desiccated coconut so beloved by those Down Under. Bear in mind it had been over two years since I had seen one, so you have to forgive me if, for just a moment, I forgot where I was or any semblance of proprietry and screamed, "Oh my GOD! LAMINGTONS!". My family looked at me as if they wished the earth would open up and swallow them, but the funniest was the guy at the register, who had that typical Aussie look that said "So wot? It's just a bloody lamington. Don't chuck a mental".

The rest of the weeks passed in what can only be described as vacational bliss. Roasting hot sun, seeing my friends again, summer sales, being back in a real city (Dublin doesn't count as its highest building is probably about six stories). Also being home and spoiled rotten by my parents who took me to wineries, bought me clothes, gave me Christmas presents, lent me their cars, cooked my meals, and generally treated me like a princess. The cars thing was fun - after not having driven in two and a half years I was more of a nanna driver than ever. Plus imagine my embarrassment when driving a bunch of friends home from dinner and I couldn't figure out where the headlights were. *blush!* It was awesome to see my friends again, apart from them being ever so slightly wedding-obsessed (I think 5 of them are getting engaged or married at some point this year?) it was like I'd never been away. Lots of catching up was done! Sure enough, the time came around for the flight home. I was thinking as I sat in the airport about the last time I had been there, in departures, nearly three years previous. At that time I was super nervous and excited, thinking about how much I would miss my parents, departing on my Grand Adventure, and didn't know what was facing me in the next few days, let alone years. This time I was just trying to stay awake. The flight was just like the flight to Melbourne, only sad instead of exciting. But although being on holidays is such a great feeling, and although the next day I was going in to work, when I got back to Dublin I still thought, "phew, it's good to be home".

You may remember that I said I had left my apartment when I hopped on the flight to Melbourne. Where did I move? Well, this story begins a few months before, in June 2007. I was having a coffee with my friend Ares, and as we were going our separate ways he said to me, "Hey Lucia, I'm having a lunch at my house this Saturday. My friend Erik is going to cook Marmitako, it's a typical Basque dish. Do you want to come?". "Sure," I replied. "But won't Erik mind, you know, having another mouth to feed?" (at this point I'm imagining myself in the same situation, having carefully planned an elaborate lunch for six and then at the last minute three people ask "Can I bring a friend?" and then you're screwed) and Ares replied with a funny look, "Lucia, I'm absolutely sure he wouldn't mind if you came." The way he said it made me think hmmm, what's that all about?

Anyway Saturday came, I went to Ares's place, and we all began to peel potatoes for the marmitako (which, by the way, is a very delicious Basque tuna stew). There were about 15 of us in the end but Erik wasn't daunted (cooking for 15 would send me into a panicked frenzy), armed with two giant saucepans, about three kilos of potatoes, eight large tuna fillets and assorted other vegetables. We all peeled, cleaned and chopped while we chatted and the boys took over the kitchen (most Basque boys can cook). The marmitako turned out fantastic and we all ate happily and then turned more seriously to continuing the party, which basically means talking, drinking and smoking. At about 12 midnight Ares and Elfina (his girlfriend) were about ready to crash so those of us that were left headed off into town to continue the festivities. On the way Erik came up to talk to me, offered me a drink, and put his arm around my shoulders. Up until then we had had a couple of conversations but the moment I felt his arm around me was the first moment I considered him as anything other than "Ares's friend". We continued chatting on the way to Kennedy's and then once we got there I think he bought me a drink...although I'm not sure as I generally make it a point not to accept drinks from men. Then, with the atmosphere, and Erik's sweetness, one thing led to another...you can figure out the rest. Later he walked me home, but I left him in Parnell Street, making it clear he wasn't going to be invited back to my apartment. He said he didn't mind, but of course, all guys say that. I never thought I'd hear from him again.

Next morning, "Brrrrrrr!". Text message. We arranged to meet for a drink at the Big Tree later that afternoon. I had the usual pre-date jitters; what will I wear, how will I do my hair, what if I can't think of anything to say, what if I'm brutally axe-murdered? But when we met we had an easygoing and interesting conversation, no awkward pauses, I didn't worry about my hair, and a quick pat down reassured me that Erik wasn't carrying an axe. The only problem was our accents - speaking Spanish I had trouble understanding his Basque intonation and funny jargon, and speaking English my Aussie accent had Erik completely baffled. But we spoke Spanish for the whole afternoon (I was so proud of myself! My first date in Spanish) and later I walked him home. But I didn't go inside :)

Anyway we carried on like this for a while, seeing each other now and then (each time he texted me was a surprise - "oh, he still hasn't forgotten all about me") until there came that point. That point where you have to make a call. Are you going to stay with this person, or are you going to call it quits and say, no, you're not the one for me? I wasn't sure. I hadn't a clue. I'd never gotten to this point with anyone before. And I spent hours, days, weeks, with it going around in my head. Is he? Isn't he? Do I know him well enough? Do I like him enough? Does he like me enough? In the end I never made a decision. I just stopped thinking about it and just went with whatever I was feeling in the moment. And now, a year later, I'm more in love with him than ever before. Because he's thoughtful and kind, and funny, and has gorgeous eyes and a winning smile. Because he introduced me to life with fabric softener (it is very different to life without fabric softener, believe me). Because he doesn't bullshit and he doesn't take bullshit from other people. Because he'll give everything to help a friend. And lots of other reasons that I won't list now because this is starting to sound vaguely like a eulogy (weird) and it's making me sad.

Our relationship has its moments, like all relationships. We get on each other's nerves a bit. But basically we are there for each other, we look out for each other, we have our laughing moments together and the moments when we ask for help. And mostly, the moments when we do laundry or clean the bathroom or cook or go to Tesco or tidy up the bedroom or fold clothes. A big part of me loves being domesticated - watching other people enjoy the food I have cooked or looking at a just-tidied bedroom gives me great satisfaction. But you can forget that the other person is there, as you become somehow lost in the daily tasks that can easily start to take over your life, if you're not careful. It is entirely possible to come home, cook, eat, clean up, shower and go to bed before you have a meaningful conversation or even really acknowledge your partner. Thank goodness for weekends, long, lazy breakfasts, sunny afternoons in the park (we did have a couple in April I think) and friends, lovely friends, who make it possible to have your cake and eat it too, allowing you to spend time together and apart at the same time.

Remember when I told my flatmates I was going to Australia and not coming back? I had been looking around for a place to move that wasn't going to kill my bank account or my social life, when Erik made what now seems to me to be the obvious suggestion. "Why don't you move in with me?", to which I made the obvious reply, "Are you crazy? We've only been together five months and we barely know each other and you want us to live together? We'll probably kill each other after five minutes." But when I thought about it it made sense - going back and forward between each other's places was killing us, his house is fairly close to the city and the rent is low, and why would I move in with complete strangers when I could move in with my boyfriend? In the end it wasn't any of those things that changed my mind, it was the fact that it just felt like the right thing to do. I've learned over the years what a powerful instrument instinct can be, and it didn't fail me in this case. It's been quite a bit longer than five minutes and we are both still alive.

Having spent six months together, and another six living together, now it is time for another change in our relationship. Not just our relationship, but our entire lives. You probably know, if you have followed this blog since the beginning, that it was always my intention after six months in Dublin to move to Barcelona and "Eemproof my espaniss". Well, it's a little later than originally planned, but three years and three months after landing in Europe, I am finally packing my bags, and my boyfriend, and heading to the Iberian Peninsula. Actually it was Erik who gave me the final push - I was quite settled here with my job and my friends whom I love, and although I still dreamt about Spain, Erik was the push I needed to finally act on the dream. He had given up a couple of job offers already in Spain (Barcelona included) because he knew I wasn't ready to leave Ireland and he didn't want to leave me. But his desire to be back in Spain grew stronger, and at the same time, so did my ennui. Dublin is a fun place, but after a few years you've seen all the castles, dodged all the leprechauns and drunk all the pints you can handle for a while. Not to mention, as I have before, about the ceaseless rain. I'm ready for a change of environment, new stimuli, new challenges, something to motivate me and take me out of my comfort zone. Many things scare me about the move: Living just Erik and I by ourselves, speaking Spanish 24/7, the smoking (most Spanish smoke like chimneys) job interviews (scary enough in English, so imagine!) making new friends, the list goes on. But I'm stuck in a bit of a rut, I guess the same as I was before I left Australia. I'm not sure what I'll do when I'm older, stuck in a rut and can't up and leave the country. There's always nudist colonies I guess. But this move is the best thing for Erik and I right now, the best thing for our development as people and I just feel incredibly lucky to have him alongside me to share this experience. I came to Europe alone, master of my own destiny and I compromised with nobody. This will be different - I have two destinies to worry about and although we share our lives, we are not the same person. It will be tricky, but I hope that in the end it will be the same as the first time - looking back and saying, "Well, to be honest, that wasn't nearly as hard as I thought it was going to be!".