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.

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.

Somewhat Calmer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drumroll please...

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

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

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

One conversation, three ways.

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

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

Everyone's a winner.

This is how the transaction would have gone in Dublin:

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

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

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

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

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

Kaixo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gabon!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our One Week Vacation

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

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

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

So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen good night!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Travel and Food - the great loves of my life

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello Everybody!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Egypt - Day 11 - Back to Crazy Cairo

Mina met us at Giza station and took us back to the hotel. I took my mobile telephone out of my bag to check if anyone had sent me a message – unfortunately the battery was dead as a doornail and the thing wouldn’t even turn on. I put it back in my bag and zipped up the pocket. I would never see that telephone again.

Back to the hotel to dump our bags in our rooms and then it was back to Khan Al-Khalili to finish up the shopping which Shelly had still not completed (unbelievably). To be fair I still had a couple of things I wanted to buy, in particular a Mounir CD featuring my new favourite song and the song of the tour, “Soo ya soo”. I ended up with a swag of stuff – the CD (I drove a hard bargain and got it down from 85 pounds to 20) earrings (from 35 pounds to 5) a silver key of life (he wouldn’t budge from 25 pounds), a papyrus for Tania (don’t remember how much I paid for that one) and some delicious lotus flower perfume (about 25 or 30 pounds I think). Since one euro is about 7.5 Egyptian pounds all this stuff was laughably cheap. From the market back to the hotel via a delicious kebab shop we’d discovered when we were first in Cairo and Rob came knocking on our door to see if we had any plans for the night. We didn’t, and were more than happy to piggyback on theirs, so we played cards with them a while (I was crap as usual but was helped by very good hands, so my incompetence at cards was not displayed for all to see) until it was time to wash up and go to the Hard Rock Café to meet the others (who had gone to the buffet restaurant next to the pyramids that we’d had lunch at). We headed out and got into a taxi. As usual we agreed the price before we got in (standard practise in Cairo) but started to worry a little when the cab driver stopped to ask a pedestrian directions. It soon became abundantly clear that the driver didn’t have the remotest idea where the Hard Rock Café was, and neither did most of Cairo. The driver refused to let us out of the cab however, and I was beginning to wonder if we’d be held hostage inside this taxi driving around Cairo all night. After repeated pleas to stop the taxi and let us out fell on deaf ears, we finally grabbed the opportunity while he stopped at a set of lights to jump out. Free from our despotic conductor, we found another cab complete with driver who knew where he was going, and things began to improve from there.

The drinks at the Hard Rock cost as much as a three course meal at most of the establishments we’d been frequenting, but since it was my last evening in Egypt I wasn’t about to let that stop me from having a fabulous time so bring on the margaritas said I! We chatted, betted on which band was coming up next on the video screen, and killed time. At one point the waiters got up on stage next to where we were sitting and began to line dance – when one of them motioned for me to join them I could hardly refuse! We did some easy Macarena-like movements to “YMCA” which was good fun, and afterwards I asked the waiter dude if anyone who had a brother named Sam worked there. Sam used to bartender at the Hard Rock and his brother (whos name unfortunately escaped me at the time) still worked there. The waiter didn’t know but pointed me towards the manager dude who might have been able to help me out. The manager had never heard of anyone called Sam, Samir or Sim-Sim so I resigned myself to not meeting his brother, until Andrew offered me his phone (mine was lost or stolen somewhere in Khan Al-Khalili) to text Sam and ask him. Next thing I knew a handsome Egyptian man tapped me on the shoulder and said “Hi, I’m Joe, Sam’s brother. Here, he wants to talk to you.” and handed me a phone. I talked to Sam a little and to Joe, who couldn’t sit and have a drink with us (“Sorry guys, I can’t, it’s my workplace!”) but insisted on getting us drinks on the house and must have asked me five times if I needed anything and if I was ok. What a gentleman! He went home and soon after so did we – Shelly and I were going back to the hotel just to grab our bags and then directly to the airport to catch our flight back to Dublin.

This trip exceeded all my expectations – I had lots of fun, it was relaxing, I learned loads (sorry if I’ve bored you with all the Egyptology but that’s why I visit places, to learn about them!) and I made very good friends who I hope and intend to keep in contact with. I loved Cairo, Aswan, the Nubians, the Egyptians, the Nile, the feluccas (most people I feel would agree that the feluccas were the highlight). I will return to Egypt one day, there’s no doubt about that. Not just to see the Red Sea but more importantly to visit the friends I made and also Cairo which I fell in love with despite (or maybe because of ) its chaos. A big hug and kiss to Budget Expeditions Egypt, the staff at the Havana hotel, the guy at the market that I bought the dance CD off, the little girl from the Nubian village, the felucca crew, the smiling bartender at Murphys and especially Sam and Rami, without whom none of this would have been possible.

Egypt - Day 10 - Goodbye Budget Expeditions, Goodbye Luxor

This was a bit of a nothing day. Having got to bed at 04:00 the previous night I didn’t get up until late, just in time to say bye to Sam, Rami and everyone. I think there were a few tired and cranky faces thanks to the night before – also probably more than one hangover. We said a hurried goodbye with lots of hugs, email swapping and “take care”s, and the 15 day tour people headed off for the Red Sea. I was still tired as anything so while Shelly went shopping yet again (I really have no idea where she finds this endless reservoir of shopping motivation) I slept all afternoon. I knew this was probably a bad idea as we would be catching the overnight train back to Cairo that night, and an afternoon nap usually equals a sleepless night, but the sharp pains in my stomach precluded other activity. I slept and slept all afternoon and evening until it was time to catch the train. Budget’s Luxor rep met us at the hotel and took us to the train station; thank goodness he was there to make sure we got on the right train because the train announcements were a) in Arabic and b) made on a typical scratchy and unintelligible train station PA system. On to the train where Shelly and I were again seated next to the bloody door – thank goodness this time it wasn’t broken and led to the WC rather than the smoking area. Unbelievably, I dropped off to sleep almost immediately and barely woke until Shelly shook me to let me know we were almost at Giza station.

Egypt - Day 9 - The Valley of the Kings and an Irish Pub

It was with a bittersweet feeling in my heart that I woke up on the Saturday morning. We were going to see the Valley of the Kings – one of Egypt’s brightest jewels. But that night would be the last one I would spend with all my fellow travellers – the next day most of them were heading off to Dahab to spend a few days diving and relaxing at the Red Sea. I wasn’t fussed about the Red Sea to be honest, but was disappointed I wouldn’t be able to climb Mt. Sinai, which I had thought was included in our part of the tour, but in fact was later. The worst part was the fact the group was splitting up – only ten of us were heading back to Cairo the following day, which meant for everyone else tonight was practically goodbye. I was sad about that but I had been gearing myself up for it for a few days now, and so was pretty much prepared for it. Anyway before I could be sad I had the Valley of the Kings to explore!

The Valley of the Kings began construction because the Pharoahs started to catch on to the fact that pyramids were not a fantastic idea when it comes to making provision for your afterlife. A pyramid is like hanging a giant sign on the door of your tomb saying, “Treasure here! Come and steal it!”. The Pharoahs didn’t like this as all the stuff the pyramid robbers were taking were the things they were going to need in the afterlife. So one of them (I don’t remember which one) had the bright idea of making his tomb underground, in an enormous cavern. They liked this much better than the pyramids because not only were they harder to find, but now instead of having just one burial chamber, they could make their tombs as big as they desired, with the main burial chamber, an antechamber, and another storage room filled with all the things they were going to need for the afterlife, like food, cups, tables, clothes, hairbrushes, everything. What a nightmare if you ask me – I have enough trouble packing for an 11 day trip, let alone packing for eternity. The reason they had liked the pyramids so much is that they thought the pyramids would bring them closer to the sun (and therefore Amoun-Ra), but the geography of the Valley of the Kings affords natural mountains which resemble pyramids, which is thought to be a main reason that location was chosen as the necropolis.

The first tomb we saw was (I think) Tutmoses. The figures on the walls weren’t very colourful but I found them interesting as I guessed (correctly as later confirmed by Sam) that they were inscriptions of The Book of The Dead, which was basically a step by step guide of all the rituals and spells to be performed to ensure the dead king would have no troubles getting to the eternal life.

The second tomb we saw was Merentah, and that one was much more colourful and impressive, and I recognised Isis on the head of his sarcophagus. My memory of this tomb is a little hazy as it got drowned out by the grandeur of the third one – unfortunately I can’t remember who it belonged to (one of the Ramses?) but it was amazing. Rows and rows of hieroglyphs covered the walls, colours as vivid as if they had been painted three days ago not three millennia ago. The Egyptians used natural paints – sulphur for yellow, iron oxide for red, lapis lazuli for blue (which was the most expensive colour). After they finished colouring they covered the walls in beeswax to preserve the paints. The ceiling was blue with white Pole Stars painted all over it (the Pole Star was thought to guide the way to the afterlife) and also some kind of counting that I couldn’t quite figure out. There were also pictures of ordinary things, like a mill grinding wheat into flour and behind it some bread. There were rooms leading off the main chamber with gods and goddesses on the walls, all in vivid technicolour. Anyhow it’s impossible to describe all this even nearly adequately in words and photography within the tombs is strictly forbidden (not that that stopped a portly Nubian man from snapping with flash! If all those colours fade in a generation or so people like him will be solely to blame) so you will all just have to go yourselves and check it out. Do what we did though, and go early in the morning, as those tombs are really really hot, and must be unbearable around midday.

That afternoon was a free one in Luxor – unfortunately, other than the Valley of the Kings and Karnak temple Luxor doesn’t really have much to recommend it. We went for a meal at a Chinese restaurant (I think Shelly was missing Chinese food) but none of the staff including the chef were Chinese, so you can imagine the quality of the food. The rice in particular tasted as if it had been boiled in tap water, but (probably stupidly) I threw caution to the winds and ate it anyway. I was later to regret that as it caused a minor digestive upset from which think I still have not fully recovered. After the meal Shelly wanted to do some “quick shopping” which, translated from Shelly-speak into English, means hours of poring over papyrus and bargaining with proprietors. The situation isn’t helped much by the proprietors themselves, who, if they haven’t got what you’re looking for right there, will spend “just one minute” (one Egyptian minute = approx 45-60 regular minutes) looking for the item which they know they have in the back room somewhere, or occasionally they will even send a friend home to get it. I got sick of this after a while, and, tired from the sun, the food and the accumulated lack of sleep I headed back to the hotel for a snooze. Sam had promised Shelly to take her to a perfume shop that afternoon at five – I had intended to go with them but I was out cold until it was time for dinner.

I tried to make myself look acceptable to go out that night – since it was basically the last time I would be seeing these people I thought I’d try and leave them with a half-decent impression. This was made difficult due to the fact I’d left all my makeup in Dublin (I like to take holidays from makeup as much as anything else), my skin was dry as a bone and I had big red mosquito bites all over the right side of my face from the felucca. I put on my cleanest pair of jeans, a cool singlet and my favourite badass fake leather jacket (still after two years my favourite wardrobe item and at six euro the best bargain I ever found) and hoped for the best. While we waited in the lobby we had a photo fest and tried to snap ourselves with everyone around us in all kinds of silly poses. Eventually we headed off to the restaurant which turned out to be, of all things, an Irish pub. I could barely believe it but they had the authenticity down to every detail – Guinness mirrors, a Dubs flag, leprechauns, an Irish dancing dress on the walls, a chalkboard reading “Live Football”, and Westlife CDs. We probably could have done without the last one, but live and let live I say. It was a little while before the food arrived, so we passed the time playing pool, dancing, talking, buying jewellery (don’t ask) watching the football and generally having a great time. I tried to talk to as many people as possible and tried not to let my resentment at going home early show through (too much). Eventually the food came and we sat down to a raucous meal, followed by much singing and dancing. There were two tour birthdays that day, Tracy and Marcella, and since my birthday was the 19th and after I had left, Sam decided we would celebrate my birthday too. The group sang Happy Birthday to the three of us, and we continued to dance until they cleared us out of the pub into the club below. Then the fun really began as for the first time everyone really got into it and danced the night away. The DJ was quite good, better than most of the DJs here in Dublin to be honest. Not only that but he actually plays requests – imagine my surprise when I asked for “Gasolina” and it came on the very next song! I always love that song as it reminds me of the time I spent in Buenos Aires with my family. Sam had the brilliant idea of requesting “Soo ya soo” and everyone went mad, especially me. I didn’t leave the dance floor all night (every time I tried, which was only once or twice, someone came over to drag me back) and while people began to drift away a few of us stayed until the very end, reluctant to draw the night to a close. Finally it was time to leave as we were all exhausted, but someone (either Andrew or Sam, I don’t remember who) had the insane idea of stopping off at a coffee shop on the way home for a last shisha. We chatted at the coffee shop for a while, had something to drink and Rami paid without telling us (I was too tired to argue). Afterwards we walked home with our hearts heavy.

Egypt - Day 8 - Luxor and Three Temples In One Day

I had a restless sleep and woke at about 05:30 to find Marcie awake and staring out onto the Nile. Sam had told us the night before that the crew would start sailing at 05:00, so I wasn’t surprised, but poor Marcie wasn’t listening and had woken up busting to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately when she went to step off the felucca she found we were already afloat! Mike was also up shooting and the three of us gazed at the East waiting for the sunrise, me in a semi-catatonic state. We watched the sun rise over the tree tops, and then waited for everyone to wake up so we could have breakfast. The funniest was Rami, who woke with a dopey look on his face and his hair sticking up in all directions.

Later breakfast, check out of the felucca, and we said goodbye to the crew in whos capable hands we had made it safely to Luxor. We’d already been up for a few hours but the day was only just beginning. First on the list was Kom-Ombu temple, a large and impressive temple dedicated to two gods, Horus and Set. If you remember from the story at Philae temple, Set is the god of evil who tried to kill Osiris, and Horus is the protector of kingship, son of Isis and Osiris. The two gods originally shared the temple, and the Egyptian people would give offerings to each. Horus wasn’t particularly fussy about his offerings, fruits, little carvings, things that are easy to get would be just fine for him. Set however, being a little more greedy than Horus, insisted that his offerings be made of gold, which had to be brought from many miles away and carefully crafted into gifts for him. Naturally people loved Horus best and offered him many more gifts than Set. Set got angry and staged a takeover of the temple and booted Horus out. Now the people were forced to make all their offerings of gold. They spent more and more time looking for gold, bringing it back to the temple, and making gifts. Eventually they had to spend so much time pleasing Set that they had no time for farming, sowing, irrigation, harvesting and so on. Soon the fertile lands they had always farmed had turned into barren, unkempt fields. When Amoun-Ra (the supreme and sun god) saw this he was disappointed. He asked the people “Why did you ruin the best farmland I gave you?” and the people told him how Set had taken over the temple and about his outrageous demands. Amoun-Ra was extremely angry about this, and he asked the goddess of justice (I don’t remember her name now) to divide the temple exactly in half. He told Set he could keep one half and he gave the other half to Horus. Now, on one of the back walls of the temple you can find a depiction of the temple with a line drawn down the middle. Set is on one side and Horus is on the other, with the goddess of justice above. So things went back to how they were before, and the world was good again.

After Kom-Ombu we drove straight to Edfu temple, another large and impressive temple with exquisite carvings of which some of the colours still remain. Unfortunately although this is one of the more important temples in Egypt, I don’t remember any of the stories about it. By that point I was extremely tired, having had only a short, fitful sleep and having been on the go since 05:30, so I wasn’t really absorbing a lot of information. Not to mention I hadn’t had a shower for nearly 72 hours, which makes more difference to one’s state of mind than you might think.

After Edfu we had time only for a super-fast lunch (McDonalds unfortunately, but it was the closest and easiest option) and Shelly managed to shower before we had to be downstairs. On to our horse and carriage to Karnak temple, the largest temple in Egypt and the largest temple complex in the world. When Sam told me that I thought it couldn’t possibly be bigger than Machu Picchu, but on seeing it I had to re-evaluate that opinion! The horse and carriage ride was fun but a little cheesy – but we already stick out so much as Western tourists I guess it doesn’t make any difference if we fall into all the tourist traps. The façade of the temple isn’t that impressive really, compared to say, Abu Simbel, but it’s pretty amazing once you get inside. There’s a couple of reasons why it’s so big: firstly, it’s dedicated to Amoun-Ra, the supreme and sun god, so obviously he has to have the biggest temple. Secondly, because it’s Amoun-Ra’s temple all the kings wanted to please him, so while most temples have been built by only one king, Karnak was continued over many generations. Plus, it’s located in Luxor, which used to be part of Thebes, the old capital of Egypt (not to be confused with Thebes in Greece). The most striking part of the temple was the colonnade hall, featuring about 130 enormous columns bedecked with inscriptions and carvings. We only had an hour or so to look around, not nearly enough to even quickly look over the whole temple complex, let alone really get to know it. Sam pointed out a long wall graphically depicting Horus taking revenge on Set (remember the Philae temple story?) for the killing of his father. In the end Horus managed to kill Set but I have a feeling that won’t be the last we see of the god of evil. They usually find some way to come back to life.

We took the horse and carriage back to the hotel, the drivers hassling us the entire way for tips, from the moment we got into the carriage to the moment we got out. As we knew that Sam had already tipped the drivers along with their fees we were deaf to their pleas. So insistent and repetitive were their cries of “Backsheesh, backsheesh, backsheesh” that we resorted to drowning them out with a very loud rendition of “You’re the One That I Want” from the movie “Grease”. When we got out without tipping them they shouted something at us in Arabic (probably obscene). Although it’s customary to tip in Egypt it’s never compulsory and the drivers had already been tipped by the tour company anyway, so I was a little annoyed at the cheekyness of the drivers. I think it might be a Luxor thing – the Luxorians seem to be more sneaky and money hungry than in other parts of Egypt.

Back to the hotel to grab a jumper and I finally (oh the joy!) managed to stand under the shower for two minutes. My first shower in three days and although I had to make it very fast it was lovely and I felt like a new woman afterwards. We (Marcie, Mary and I) were actually heading back to Karnak temple for the sound and lights show. When Sam first mentioned it I wasn’t very excited by the prospect – flashing lights and that sort of thing don’t really interest me. But when he said “You probably won’t like it, the effects are not that great and it’s quite heavy on the history” I decided it was definitely worth a look. The temple was gorgeous lit up at night and standing in the colonnade hall looking up at the stars was a fabulous experience. To be honest there was more drama in the show than hard historical fact but we still enjoyed it – I learned more about the actual rites and rituals that the high priests and kings would have performed inside the temple, which I found fascinating. On the way home we saw Luxor Temple lit up which was beautiful as well.

Dinner that night was a relaxed and civilised affair; no doubt due to the marathon day we’d just had. We went to a Western-style restaurant called Maxime’s where I ate a passable moussaka but the service was abysmal – the waiter practically threw the food at us. Compared to the service at all the other restaurants we’d been to in Egypt where everyone had been so friendly and helpful this was a surprise. After dinner a lovely walk home in the balmy air to the hotel, where we had a brilliant night’s sleep in an actual bed.