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!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
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!".
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!".
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