Every time I do it, I swear it will never happen again. The pain and sense of loss is too great. This time, I tell myself, I will just be happy with what I have. But in the end, the itch to change comes over me, and I have to face it again.
Moving house.
Anyone that's done it is intimately familiar with the sense of dread. How, how, how do you accumulate so much stuff? Stuff you like, stuff you need, stuff you neither like nor need...yes, the broken lamps, ripped bags and cables you haven't the faintest idea what to plug into are still somewhere in your living space, although if someone asked you why on earth you still have this rubbish, the only response you can offer is a baffled expression.
Usually, when I have moved house, I have either a) only brought one rucksack full of stuff (like when I moved to Dublin) or b) had help as was moving with other people. This time I have a house full of crap (two people's crap, to be exact) and my loving partner has just departed to Ulan Baator for a six week road trip with three other guys (i.e. 24/7 toilet humour, burping, and talking about boobs). So I am on my own with this one. While this may sound like I got a bit of a crappy deal, let me point out some highlights of this arrangement:
1) I have the house to myself for the first five weeks, which means I get to decide what goes where. When Erik gets back he will be too tired to complain and after that it will be TOO LATE to change anything! Bwahahahaha!
2) I can be absolutely sure all the 500 page hardback cookbooks are not packed in the same box.
3) An across the board reduction of 85% of the nagging involved in the whole operation.
4) Possibly the best part: when I get home from work in the afternoons to pack boxes, I can blast my iTunes at top volume - think Katrina and the Waves, Robbie Williams, Hanson, S Club 7, the B 52's, Jennifer Lopez, the Bay City Rollers, Britney Spears and Ricky Martin. I wish I was kidding. I'm sorry, but La Copa De La Vida is the best World Cup song there has ever been and probably will ever be. It's physically impossible to stay on your butt when that song comes on. It should be a new Natural Law: "Any inanimate sentient being, when 'La Copa de la Vida' is applied to it, will gain chemical energy and subsequently expend kinetic energy". So when the iTunes flips to Ricky, I can interrupt stuffing crap into boxes to dance scantily clad (it's a million degrees!) around my living room without any eye rolling or the sound of hands being clapped forcefully over ears. And when I have packed and danced until the sweat is dripping (it's a million degrees, remember) I can go to the fridge and crack open an ice cold Quilmes without anyone giving me an "it's a bit early in the afternoon to be skulling weak Argentinian beer, isn't it?" eyebrow.
So, although moving is a right royal pain in the derrière, I don't have a driving license for the right side of the road (thank god I have friends) and Erik has vanished in a puff of smoke (let it be said, for the record, that this is Not His Fault, it is just bad timing), so far I am actually enjoying it. I will probably amend this viewpoint after I have lugged all the boxes up five flights of stairs with no elevator, but for now, I'm having a fabulous time.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Easy 7 Step Guide: Taking Out a Mortgage in Spain
Oh man, I'm so stressed out. I didn't even realise it until the other day. This mortgage thing is driving me INSANE, I cannot wait for it to be over. This is how it has gone for us:
Step 1: Here in Spain they won't look askance at giving you a mortgage until you've already paid a deposit on a house. So step one is househunting. Anybody that has ever done it knows how much of a drag that is. I solved that particular problem by setting a "Two viewing sessions a week" rule. No more than two nights a week looking at properties, because otherwise your social life is dead in the water, the laundry and dishes pile up, you only have time to wash your hair once a week, and your blood pressure rises to about 3000 mmHg. So using the very advanced and soon to be patented "Two Nights a Week" system, we managed to find a very well-located, large (for us), and thankfully well priced apartment. After knocking 8 grand off the asking price (gotta love a buyer's market), we had this bit done and dusted.
Step 2: Round one of the banks. In reality this step begins halfway through step one, but I'm not in the mood to make a flowchart, so you're just gonna have to imagine it. You go to all the different banks you can find, talk to the manager, and they give you glossy brochures indicating the conditions of the extremely competitive mortgages they are offering. This step is a pain in the arse in every possible way, and also, we found out later, essentially useless because they tell you the advertised interest rates (very attractive) which they only actually give to extremely rich people or the son of the bank manager. In reality they will find any reason to disqualify you for that mortgage package and charge you a king's ransom in fees and interest rates. Therefore, take note, fellow property investors, next time around I will skip this step, and go straight for step 4, but somewhere in here you gotta...
Step 3) Pay the deposit on the house. You agree to the price, and put down 10% of this amount. In return the vendors promise not to sell it to anyone else. If you don't end up buying it, you forfeit the money. If the vendors sell it to someone else, they have to pay you back double. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal, until you realise that to take out the mortgage, you have to have this signed. So, not only do you have to commit to buying a house you are not at all sure you can pay for, you have to agree to a date by which to have the house bought (in our case, July 31). You don't have the money by then, you lose the deposit, but the sign date is completely out of your control and you are at the mercy of the banks which as we all know, are generally risk-averse, cautious, and very, very slow to get anything done. Why can't you set a date for sometime in 2050? Because after years of property boom in Spain, when some properties were bought within hours of coming onto the market, the system hasn't changed and the expectations of the seller are still the same. So if you ask for too much time, they just tell you to jump in the lake and sell it to someone who will commit to the money faster. It's nonsense, but it's the way it is.
Step 4: Round 2 of banks: Begin taking the mortgage out with several banks, and thus find out the REAL conditions they are offering. If I told you that this step involved a mountain of paperwork, I would be underselling it. Thank god for the 21st century and the prevalence of scanners and Adobe Reader, or I would have felled the Daintree with all the photocopies. Deposit contract, ID, work contracts, registration documents of the property of we are buying, six months of bank statements, work history, job contracts of our two previous employments, three payslips, plus all of this again for Erik's parents who have kindly agreed to be guarantors, registration documents of their assets, on and on ad nauseum. I understand that there will be some red tape involved if someone (or thing) is going to lend you an exhorbitant amount of money, but by the sixth time they come back to you for more documentation, your heart really does begin to sink a bit.
Step 5: Denials. Not that there are not acceptations as well, but the denials come faster. And thicker. Bank employees know a lost cause when they see one, and the Spanish character makes it impossible for them to work on something one second more than they absolutely have to. This means that if you're out, you know it straight away.
Step 6: The waiting game. After you have sent in all the papers (or, what they said was all the papers, just you wait, sucker!) you sit back and wait for Mr. and Ms. Actuary Risk Assessors in the bank to decide whether you are risky business or not. Will you default on your mortgage? Will you go bankrupt? Will you spend your life savings on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Antartica from which you never return? These are the important questions that face the Risks department every day. More often than not the only thing you hear from them is requests for more paper, and other than that communication is scarce. From the beginning of step 4 to here will take 3-4 weeks. Every day within those weeks will be filled with anxiety. Your fingers will tap, your stomach will knot, your concentration at work will wane, and you will lose sleep. But with luck, and a healthy salary, you should be able to make it to...
Step 7: Acceptation! Congratulations, say hello to your brand new baby mortgage! I can't really tell you much about this step yet, but I hope to fill you in once I get there...
Step 1: Here in Spain they won't look askance at giving you a mortgage until you've already paid a deposit on a house. So step one is househunting. Anybody that has ever done it knows how much of a drag that is. I solved that particular problem by setting a "Two viewing sessions a week" rule. No more than two nights a week looking at properties, because otherwise your social life is dead in the water, the laundry and dishes pile up, you only have time to wash your hair once a week, and your blood pressure rises to about 3000 mmHg. So using the very advanced and soon to be patented "Two Nights a Week" system, we managed to find a very well-located, large (for us), and thankfully well priced apartment. After knocking 8 grand off the asking price (gotta love a buyer's market), we had this bit done and dusted.
Step 2: Round one of the banks. In reality this step begins halfway through step one, but I'm not in the mood to make a flowchart, so you're just gonna have to imagine it. You go to all the different banks you can find, talk to the manager, and they give you glossy brochures indicating the conditions of the extremely competitive mortgages they are offering. This step is a pain in the arse in every possible way, and also, we found out later, essentially useless because they tell you the advertised interest rates (very attractive) which they only actually give to extremely rich people or the son of the bank manager. In reality they will find any reason to disqualify you for that mortgage package and charge you a king's ransom in fees and interest rates. Therefore, take note, fellow property investors, next time around I will skip this step, and go straight for step 4, but somewhere in here you gotta...
Step 3) Pay the deposit on the house. You agree to the price, and put down 10% of this amount. In return the vendors promise not to sell it to anyone else. If you don't end up buying it, you forfeit the money. If the vendors sell it to someone else, they have to pay you back double. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal, until you realise that to take out the mortgage, you have to have this signed. So, not only do you have to commit to buying a house you are not at all sure you can pay for, you have to agree to a date by which to have the house bought (in our case, July 31). You don't have the money by then, you lose the deposit, but the sign date is completely out of your control and you are at the mercy of the banks which as we all know, are generally risk-averse, cautious, and very, very slow to get anything done. Why can't you set a date for sometime in 2050? Because after years of property boom in Spain, when some properties were bought within hours of coming onto the market, the system hasn't changed and the expectations of the seller are still the same. So if you ask for too much time, they just tell you to jump in the lake and sell it to someone who will commit to the money faster. It's nonsense, but it's the way it is.
Step 4: Round 2 of banks: Begin taking the mortgage out with several banks, and thus find out the REAL conditions they are offering. If I told you that this step involved a mountain of paperwork, I would be underselling it. Thank god for the 21st century and the prevalence of scanners and Adobe Reader, or I would have felled the Daintree with all the photocopies. Deposit contract, ID, work contracts, registration documents of the property of we are buying, six months of bank statements, work history, job contracts of our two previous employments, three payslips, plus all of this again for Erik's parents who have kindly agreed to be guarantors, registration documents of their assets, on and on ad nauseum. I understand that there will be some red tape involved if someone (or thing) is going to lend you an exhorbitant amount of money, but by the sixth time they come back to you for more documentation, your heart really does begin to sink a bit.
Step 5: Denials. Not that there are not acceptations as well, but the denials come faster. And thicker. Bank employees know a lost cause when they see one, and the Spanish character makes it impossible for them to work on something one second more than they absolutely have to. This means that if you're out, you know it straight away.
Step 6: The waiting game. After you have sent in all the papers (or, what they said was all the papers, just you wait, sucker!) you sit back and wait for Mr. and Ms. Actuary Risk Assessors in the bank to decide whether you are risky business or not. Will you default on your mortgage? Will you go bankrupt? Will you spend your life savings on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Antartica from which you never return? These are the important questions that face the Risks department every day. More often than not the only thing you hear from them is requests for more paper, and other than that communication is scarce. From the beginning of step 4 to here will take 3-4 weeks. Every day within those weeks will be filled with anxiety. Your fingers will tap, your stomach will knot, your concentration at work will wane, and you will lose sleep. But with luck, and a healthy salary, you should be able to make it to...
Step 7: Acceptation! Congratulations, say hello to your brand new baby mortgage! I can't really tell you much about this step yet, but I hope to fill you in once I get there...
Friday, June 26, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Must be funny, in a rich man's world
We found a house we want to buy! It's in a great, family-oriented neighbourhood, right off the main (pedestrian) street, very close to my workplace and the metro, and about 70 square metres for the both of us. Yes, it's very exciting but it is yet another disheartening anecdote which proves that intentions are not always matched with ability. Of course we would love to buy the place - the banks do not exactly share our enthusiasm, or confidence in our financial situation. Apparently, to be trustworthy in the eyes of a recessionary bank, you have to be working in the same job on a long term contract for two years. Just moved to Spain? Fuggedabadit. So we are busting our chops to prove (via email and internet forms) to the Risk department of several Spanish (and English) banks that we are really reliable people who make plenty of money and will not be losing our jobs any time soon. This is even more difficult than it sounds. It is so much easier to say "No, we won't help you take the first step into the property market" to someone whose face you have never seen, and so much harder to convince someone you are reliable, hard-working and trustworthy when your disarming smile and likeable manner cannot be used as persuasion tools.
That said, should everything work out, I will finally have a good comeback for all those annoying "So, when is the wedding?" comments. 'Cause in my eyes, a mortgage is a way more binding commitment than a marriage. Who needs to trade shiny rings when you share a "think about it too much and you'll break into a cold sweat"-size debt?
The Poland trip is coming along too. I have a vague itinerary, you can look at it here. I have 16 days to squeeze all that in! Anyone who has been to Poland, tell me which of these I can leave out... I would leave out Krakow for fear of multitudes of tourists but cannot resist the lure of the Tartars or miss a chance to visit Auschwitz. I wasn't going to go, after having experienced Dachau and the subsequent depression, but I think it's something one should see and dwell on for a while. Most of all, I'm looking forward to travelling by myself; I haven't done that since the Americas in 2005/2006 and that was one of the best trips of my life. No compromises, suckah! Erik will be rallying it up in Asia, so I don't have to worry about him. Well, I don't have to worry about him being lonely, I still have to worry that he will get arrested in Glormenistan (or something) for making fun of a police officer (or similar "crime") and given a life sentence with no conjugal visits. And that he will have left me to pay the mortgage, which is clearly the important thing here.
That said, should everything work out, I will finally have a good comeback for all those annoying "So, when is the wedding?" comments. 'Cause in my eyes, a mortgage is a way more binding commitment than a marriage. Who needs to trade shiny rings when you share a "think about it too much and you'll break into a cold sweat"-size debt?
The Poland trip is coming along too. I have a vague itinerary, you can look at it here. I have 16 days to squeeze all that in! Anyone who has been to Poland, tell me which of these I can leave out... I would leave out Krakow for fear of multitudes of tourists but cannot resist the lure of the Tartars or miss a chance to visit Auschwitz. I wasn't going to go, after having experienced Dachau and the subsequent depression, but I think it's something one should see and dwell on for a while. Most of all, I'm looking forward to travelling by myself; I haven't done that since the Americas in 2005/2006 and that was one of the best trips of my life. No compromises, suckah! Erik will be rallying it up in Asia, so I don't have to worry about him. Well, I don't have to worry about him being lonely, I still have to worry that he will get arrested in Glormenistan (or something) for making fun of a police officer (or similar "crime") and given a life sentence with no conjugal visits. And that he will have left me to pay the mortgage, which is clearly the important thing here.
Friday, May 22, 2009
And I thought we wouldn't have to do this again in Barcelona...
Another day, another flat. Yes, we're flathunting again. What? Yes, again. Why? We're sick of handing over an obscene amount of rent every month so someone we have only met twice. Might as well pay the money to the big bad banks and have something to show for it at the end of 30 years. So we are preparing to get up to our eyeballs in debt and take out our very first mortgage. I took a lot of convincing, and Erik, my parents, my cousin and his wife all had to work on me for a couple of months before my completely risk-averse self finally came around to the idea that a mortgage is more like a couple of dumbbells tied onto your arms with cord than a ball and chain with a rusty lock whose key has been thrown into the Atlantic. I hate debt, I hate owing people money, especially to mean people who would think nothing of throwing Erik and I onto the street if we can't meet the payments, and are really not very smart, considering they caused the current global financial crisis and are the proponents of the current credit freeze that is making life so difficult for individuals and small business to make it through the recession. At least we are buying in a recession, not in the property bubble of the previous years. With properties losing up to 60% of their value, I think I would be committed to an institution with severe depression right now if I had bought a house this time last year.
But who wants to talk about the recession? Oh, nobody, that's what I thought. Onto happier things. My mate Joanna came to visit me for a whole week! It was great catching up and being able to hang around with an Aussie for a change! While I toddled off to work every day she slept in and took in the sights, in the afternoons we got together and had some lovely walks and dinners (and of course, non-stop chats). The bonus of her visit is that she found a warehouse of a store that I really like, SkunkFunk (Basque brand!) with really cheap stuff about five minutes from my house! Thanks Janna, I will never be able to make it up to you! The only pity is that they don't have any clothes suitable for work, because the trousers I have been using are about two or three sizes too big for me and I just can't deny any longer that they look ridiculous. I look like "Bozo the Clown Goes to the Office". Tomorrow morning I am getting up early and hitting H&M and Zara and getting some pants that stay up. And maybe some shoes (I have been wearing the same pair to work for the last three months. Thanks to Erik's mum, who gave them to me).
The credit card will get a bit of a workout, which should make it super fit thanks to the exercise I gave it the other day on the clickair website. I am planning a trip to Poland in August, two wonderful weeks in this close, but strangely quite unknown land.
But who wants to talk about the recession? Oh, nobody, that's what I thought. Onto happier things. My mate Joanna came to visit me for a whole week! It was great catching up and being able to hang around with an Aussie for a change! While I toddled off to work every day she slept in and took in the sights, in the afternoons we got together and had some lovely walks and dinners (and of course, non-stop chats). The bonus of her visit is that she found a warehouse of a store that I really like, SkunkFunk (Basque brand!) with really cheap stuff about five minutes from my house! Thanks Janna, I will never be able to make it up to you! The only pity is that they don't have any clothes suitable for work, because the trousers I have been using are about two or three sizes too big for me and I just can't deny any longer that they look ridiculous. I look like "Bozo the Clown Goes to the Office". Tomorrow morning I am getting up early and hitting H&M and Zara and getting some pants that stay up. And maybe some shoes (I have been wearing the same pair to work for the last three months. Thanks to Erik's mum, who gave them to me).
The credit card will get a bit of a workout, which should make it super fit thanks to the exercise I gave it the other day on the clickair website. I am planning a trip to Poland in August, two wonderful weeks in this close, but strangely quite unknown land.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Carnaval in the gay capital of Catalunya
This was one of those weekends where I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought "I'm in Spain". I have to admit I have been a little downhearted recently - not really adapting to Barcelona like a fish to water. I'm not sure if it feels like home yet. It's certainly familiar, but I'm still struggling a little to find my niche. That said, on occasion, this country really does an outstanding job of being fun. This is one of those times.
Carnaval.
When I was growing up, I always thought of Carnaval as a Brazilian thing. Now I find that it's a global celebration, with parties stretching from the Americas to Europe. Anglo-Saxon countries either just haven't cottoned on to it yet, or are too stuffy to get into it. Either way, I have been missing out! On Saturday we made sure to wake up late and do almost nothing to make sure that we wouldn't wear ourselves out too much to partake in the midnight madness! In the afternoon we chatted lazily with a pair of Greeks who are here in Spain for the match between Villareal and Panathinaikos. They haven't even got tickets, but came on the off-chance that they can pick some up at the game. Nuts! But I envy them, I've always wanted to do something like that. They are great guys, and I really enjoyed meeting again that culture I have missed for so long. After living in Melbourne, home to the largest Greek community outside of Greece, Dublin brought on a bit of Greek withdrawals. I don't think I ever even saw a Greek restaurant in the whole three years, let alone a Greek person! At about six we headed out to Sitges (picking another Greek on the way) for some pizza and beers to start the night off with.
Sitges is apparently the gay centre of Barcelona. I have only ever seen it at night, but it appears to be a fun and good sized little town, right on the beach. A bit of a train ride from Barcelona, but well worth a visit. During Carnaval it turns into a town-wide costume party, with most of the craziness concentrated in the "Calle del Pecado" (Street of Sin). The streets were fuller than at five in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday, and everyone, EVERYONE, was in costume. Our group had dressed up as pirates, but there were all kinds of animals, Sesame street, casks of wine, angels and devils, all the usual stuff. Lots and lots of crossdressing men too. The star costume of the night went to a guy dressed up as Wally. Poor guy couldn't walk five meters without a drunken reveler poking him in the chest amidst cries of "Look guys, look! WALLY! I FOUND WALLY!"
Of course with all this mess of people and my proven lack of geographic and location abilities, I knew that there was an above average chance that I would get completely, hopelessly lost. So as soon as we made it to the main plaza, I looked Erik right in the eyes, and I said firmly, "Don't lose me". He didn't say anything in reply, but his look more or less said "Yeah, whatever, I'm going to drink another beer". We began to wander down the street, and I began to talk to two girls, Gosia and Joanna (I think). I was keeping a hawk eye out for Erik, thankfully not too difficult due to his height and very round costume (if I can find pictures I will post them - super dumbass here forgot the camera). After about five minutes, Gosia stopped to take a photo and I looked away for like, a SECOND I swear, and then he was gone and so were all the other people we were with and we were all alone. No worries though. They were up ahead, so all we had to do is walk fast, and they would appear. We walked fast. They did not appear. Despite all my best intentions, I had managed to lose myself in the crowds faster than it takes me to make a tuna omelette. What about my mobile phone you ask? A very good point, Watson, but unfortunately my mobile decided that exact moment was the appropriate one in which to die and not turn on again. Super.
The three of us alone now, we walked down to the beach where Gosia and Joanna promptly got hit on by two guys (in less time than it takes Jamie Oliver to make a damn omelette, without the tuna). I had resigned myself to standing alone for the whole night while two half-drunk Argentines tried to remove the clothing of the girls I was with, when Gosia, clearly over the lovely south American accent and the obvious intentions of her suitor, asked me, "Do you remember your boyfriend's phone number?" and pointedly handed me her phone. Here came the first miracle of the night, as I have been trying to memorise those nine digits for the last seven months without success, but for some reason my rusty but sporadically brilliant brain managed to get itself into gear and fire off all the correct neurotransmitters this time in order for me to be able to, for the first time ever, punch in Erik's phone number without having to look it up first.
Long story short, despite my abysmal description of our location, they managed to find us, and thus began the chastising for having lost the group in the first place. I tried my best not to, I swear! Anyway, I might have lost the group, but the group also lost me, right? Ha!
We spent some time hanging out at the beach, chatting and drinking, and then headed for the bars (mainly 'cause we were dying to pee!). The first one had great oldie and pop music, even though the clientele was a little strange. The second one was too full and really awful. We crossed town and ended up at this half full place with a good vibe, until the doof doof music began. At the end of the night a guy from Cork came over to talk to me. He started the conversation in Spanish (which he spoke reasonably well), and I felt no compulsion to put an end to his misery. After we had been chatting for a little while he asked, predictably, "so, where are you from?" to which I replied, "I'm Australian" (soy Australiana). His look was priceless. "What? You knew that whole time I wasn't a Spanish speaker!". Hahahahaha. Anyway he suddenly lost interest in talking to me after Erik showed up. Humph. Sometimes it's nice to be talked to because someone finds you interesting, and not simply because you have two X chromosomes.
We stayed till the bar closed and then headed out to the train. Slept all the way to Barcelona, then a mercifully short taxi ride home, and crashed into bed about 06:30. Bed sweet bed.
Carnaval.
When I was growing up, I always thought of Carnaval as a Brazilian thing. Now I find that it's a global celebration, with parties stretching from the Americas to Europe. Anglo-Saxon countries either just haven't cottoned on to it yet, or are too stuffy to get into it. Either way, I have been missing out! On Saturday we made sure to wake up late and do almost nothing to make sure that we wouldn't wear ourselves out too much to partake in the midnight madness! In the afternoon we chatted lazily with a pair of Greeks who are here in Spain for the match between Villareal and Panathinaikos. They haven't even got tickets, but came on the off-chance that they can pick some up at the game. Nuts! But I envy them, I've always wanted to do something like that. They are great guys, and I really enjoyed meeting again that culture I have missed for so long. After living in Melbourne, home to the largest Greek community outside of Greece, Dublin brought on a bit of Greek withdrawals. I don't think I ever even saw a Greek restaurant in the whole three years, let alone a Greek person! At about six we headed out to Sitges (picking another Greek on the way) for some pizza and beers to start the night off with.
Sitges is apparently the gay centre of Barcelona. I have only ever seen it at night, but it appears to be a fun and good sized little town, right on the beach. A bit of a train ride from Barcelona, but well worth a visit. During Carnaval it turns into a town-wide costume party, with most of the craziness concentrated in the "Calle del Pecado" (Street of Sin). The streets were fuller than at five in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday, and everyone, EVERYONE, was in costume. Our group had dressed up as pirates, but there were all kinds of animals, Sesame street, casks of wine, angels and devils, all the usual stuff. Lots and lots of crossdressing men too. The star costume of the night went to a guy dressed up as Wally. Poor guy couldn't walk five meters without a drunken reveler poking him in the chest amidst cries of "Look guys, look! WALLY! I FOUND WALLY!"
Of course with all this mess of people and my proven lack of geographic and location abilities, I knew that there was an above average chance that I would get completely, hopelessly lost. So as soon as we made it to the main plaza, I looked Erik right in the eyes, and I said firmly, "Don't lose me". He didn't say anything in reply, but his look more or less said "Yeah, whatever, I'm going to drink another beer". We began to wander down the street, and I began to talk to two girls, Gosia and Joanna (I think). I was keeping a hawk eye out for Erik, thankfully not too difficult due to his height and very round costume (if I can find pictures I will post them - super dumbass here forgot the camera). After about five minutes, Gosia stopped to take a photo and I looked away for like, a SECOND I swear, and then he was gone and so were all the other people we were with and we were all alone. No worries though. They were up ahead, so all we had to do is walk fast, and they would appear. We walked fast. They did not appear. Despite all my best intentions, I had managed to lose myself in the crowds faster than it takes me to make a tuna omelette. What about my mobile phone you ask? A very good point, Watson, but unfortunately my mobile decided that exact moment was the appropriate one in which to die and not turn on again. Super.
The three of us alone now, we walked down to the beach where Gosia and Joanna promptly got hit on by two guys (in less time than it takes Jamie Oliver to make a damn omelette, without the tuna). I had resigned myself to standing alone for the whole night while two half-drunk Argentines tried to remove the clothing of the girls I was with, when Gosia, clearly over the lovely south American accent and the obvious intentions of her suitor, asked me, "Do you remember your boyfriend's phone number?" and pointedly handed me her phone. Here came the first miracle of the night, as I have been trying to memorise those nine digits for the last seven months without success, but for some reason my rusty but sporadically brilliant brain managed to get itself into gear and fire off all the correct neurotransmitters this time in order for me to be able to, for the first time ever, punch in Erik's phone number without having to look it up first.
Long story short, despite my abysmal description of our location, they managed to find us, and thus began the chastising for having lost the group in the first place. I tried my best not to, I swear! Anyway, I might have lost the group, but the group also lost me, right? Ha!
We spent some time hanging out at the beach, chatting and drinking, and then headed for the bars (mainly 'cause we were dying to pee!). The first one had great oldie and pop music, even though the clientele was a little strange. The second one was too full and really awful. We crossed town and ended up at this half full place with a good vibe, until the doof doof music began. At the end of the night a guy from Cork came over to talk to me. He started the conversation in Spanish (which he spoke reasonably well), and I felt no compulsion to put an end to his misery. After we had been chatting for a little while he asked, predictably, "so, where are you from?" to which I replied, "I'm Australian" (soy Australiana). His look was priceless. "What? You knew that whole time I wasn't a Spanish speaker!". Hahahahaha. Anyway he suddenly lost interest in talking to me after Erik showed up. Humph. Sometimes it's nice to be talked to because someone finds you interesting, and not simply because you have two X chromosomes.
We stayed till the bar closed and then headed out to the train. Slept all the way to Barcelona, then a mercifully short taxi ride home, and crashed into bed about 06:30. Bed sweet bed.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Another Christmas, Another Year...
Christmas. It comes but once a year, and thank goodness for that. Most people are surprised when I say I don't like Christmas, it's like saying you don't like chocolate or the puppies in the toilet paper ads (although I am sure these people also exist). But for me it has no special meaning. My family is far away, I'm not religious, I don't have kids to get excited about Santa, so all Christmas means to me is excess consumption (both retail and gastronomic), and pine needles on the floor. Christmas in Spain has its disadvantages (bitter cold) and advantages (first Christmas ever without hearing Bing Crosby even once). I must say though, the public holidays do come in handy, and not surprisingly we hopped in the valiant Picasso for the 600k to Mallabia to spend the holiday season with Erik's family.
The week went basically as expected: Show up, eat, go out for a drink, eat, go out for a drink, sleep, eat, eat, go out for a drink, eat...do I need to go on? We went to a traditional Chrismas fair in Elgoibar but the cold made it difficult to enjoy the stalls. I have never been so happy to see a café au lait with whiskey in it! Erik was disappointed at the lack of livestock; apparently originally that was the whole point of the fair. Kids these days! They just aren't interested in patting sheep and cows any more.
My highlight of the trip was seeing the Olentxero, the Basque version of Santa Claus. To my relief, the Basque people didn't make up some ridiculous story involving flying reindeer, chimneys, and defying the laws of physics, but tell the story of the Olentxero who lives alone in the mountains and makes coal, and would often come down with gifts for the children of the town. One day he got stuck in a burning house, and a lady came and said because he had been so good to the children of the town he wouldn't die. Or something like that. My Basque isn't very good yet, but that is what I managed to piece together. Unfortunately the Olentxero has a large black beard and mustache which tends to frighten the smallest children, but the rest of them ate it up. Olentxero was very kind to me, he brought me socks, a scarf, a book, and perfume. Mmmmm!
Unfortunately after Christmas we had to come home as I had to work; I to show my face at the offial although I had almost nothing to do given that it was Christmastime and most people were on holidays. Fortunately I work on the same floor as the call centre, which means there were people around all the time, and I didn't feel like I was the only one not on holidays! I worked on the 31st and since all our friends in Barcelona are not Catalan, they had gone home to Madrid, Murcia, France, or wherever they happen to be from, leaving Erik and I all by our little lonesomes to celebrate the fact that 2008 was finally over. There was a party happening in L'Hospitalet, but that's a litte far to go for a party that may or may not be any good.
We were resigned to spending the evening quietly at home, and decided to take a walk around the neighbourhood and have a drink before sitting down to dinner. As we walked around the block, we saw a sign about two doors down from our apartment - "Underground Party". Erik and I looked at each other, and agreed, "why not?". It was a private party, €20 a pop, which included three drinks. Hell, if the party sucked, we could drink up our three and head home, which, let's face it, wasn't very far. So we paid out the €40 and went to have our pre-dinner drink. Heading home for dinner, we were already feeling ever so slightly intoxicated (after one beer! what is going on?) so we had something to eat before heading into Plaza Catalunya to watch the big BBVA clock strike 12. We made it just in time with our bottle of champagne and grapes. Erik refused to eat the grapes (you are supposed to eat one on each clock strike, for luck) but I figured I wouldn't take the risk. And I like grapes! In a further attempt attract luck into my life in 2009, I was also wearing red underwear. I don't for a second believe that either of these will make any difference, but I like to cover all the bases. We waited in Plaza Catalunya, we heard the clock, I stuffed my face with grapes (which by the way, I found in the fridge the other day and they were STILL EXACTLY THE SAME AND NOT ROTTEN AT ALL AFTER A MONTH AND HALF...scary stuff) I kissed Erik (my first NYE kiss - awwww) and we tried to avoid the drunken teenagers on the way home.
We went home to kill some time before the party started. I got dressed up into what I suspected would be a top showing cleavage to a much higher degree than the avarage at the party (a hypothesis later confirmed) and jeans (thank god they go with everything). I must admit I wasn't feeling good vibes about this party at all, which I took to be a good sign. Most of the time parties I don't want to go to turn out to be fabulous all nighters where the hours fly by and when it's time to leave I think, what, already? But I'm still having fun! Mostly by 2am I'm already yawning and wanting to go to bed. Again hypothesis proved, as we stumbled home at...I don't remember. Late. We had a great time, we didn't stay at home like lame pathetic losers on New Year's Eve, and it was a happy day all around. 2009 has officially gotten off to a good start.
The week went basically as expected: Show up, eat, go out for a drink, eat, go out for a drink, sleep, eat, eat, go out for a drink, eat...do I need to go on? We went to a traditional Chrismas fair in Elgoibar but the cold made it difficult to enjoy the stalls. I have never been so happy to see a café au lait with whiskey in it! Erik was disappointed at the lack of livestock; apparently originally that was the whole point of the fair. Kids these days! They just aren't interested in patting sheep and cows any more.
My highlight of the trip was seeing the Olentxero, the Basque version of Santa Claus. To my relief, the Basque people didn't make up some ridiculous story involving flying reindeer, chimneys, and defying the laws of physics, but tell the story of the Olentxero who lives alone in the mountains and makes coal, and would often come down with gifts for the children of the town. One day he got stuck in a burning house, and a lady came and said because he had been so good to the children of the town he wouldn't die. Or something like that. My Basque isn't very good yet, but that is what I managed to piece together. Unfortunately the Olentxero has a large black beard and mustache which tends to frighten the smallest children, but the rest of them ate it up. Olentxero was very kind to me, he brought me socks, a scarf, a book, and perfume. Mmmmm!
Unfortunately after Christmas we had to come home as I had to work; I to show my face at the offial although I had almost nothing to do given that it was Christmastime and most people were on holidays. Fortunately I work on the same floor as the call centre, which means there were people around all the time, and I didn't feel like I was the only one not on holidays! I worked on the 31st and since all our friends in Barcelona are not Catalan, they had gone home to Madrid, Murcia, France, or wherever they happen to be from, leaving Erik and I all by our little lonesomes to celebrate the fact that 2008 was finally over. There was a party happening in L'Hospitalet, but that's a litte far to go for a party that may or may not be any good.
We were resigned to spending the evening quietly at home, and decided to take a walk around the neighbourhood and have a drink before sitting down to dinner. As we walked around the block, we saw a sign about two doors down from our apartment - "Underground Party". Erik and I looked at each other, and agreed, "why not?". It was a private party, €20 a pop, which included three drinks. Hell, if the party sucked, we could drink up our three and head home, which, let's face it, wasn't very far. So we paid out the €40 and went to have our pre-dinner drink. Heading home for dinner, we were already feeling ever so slightly intoxicated (after one beer! what is going on?) so we had something to eat before heading into Plaza Catalunya to watch the big BBVA clock strike 12. We made it just in time with our bottle of champagne and grapes. Erik refused to eat the grapes (you are supposed to eat one on each clock strike, for luck) but I figured I wouldn't take the risk. And I like grapes! In a further attempt attract luck into my life in 2009, I was also wearing red underwear. I don't for a second believe that either of these will make any difference, but I like to cover all the bases. We waited in Plaza Catalunya, we heard the clock, I stuffed my face with grapes (which by the way, I found in the fridge the other day and they were STILL EXACTLY THE SAME AND NOT ROTTEN AT ALL AFTER A MONTH AND HALF...scary stuff) I kissed Erik (my first NYE kiss - awwww) and we tried to avoid the drunken teenagers on the way home.
We went home to kill some time before the party started. I got dressed up into what I suspected would be a top showing cleavage to a much higher degree than the avarage at the party (a hypothesis later confirmed) and jeans (thank god they go with everything). I must admit I wasn't feeling good vibes about this party at all, which I took to be a good sign. Most of the time parties I don't want to go to turn out to be fabulous all nighters where the hours fly by and when it's time to leave I think, what, already? But I'm still having fun! Mostly by 2am I'm already yawning and wanting to go to bed. Again hypothesis proved, as we stumbled home at...I don't remember. Late. We had a great time, we didn't stay at home like lame pathetic losers on New Year's Eve, and it was a happy day all around. 2009 has officially gotten off to a good start.
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