Lublin: Arrival

The train to Lublin had arrived right on time, but at first sight I didn't realise it was an intercity train. Although the carriages showed off a fresh lick of green paint, it screeched and groaned into Warszawa Centralna like an octogenarian with a pending hip replacement. Noisy and dilapidated though it was, the romantic in me was enchanted by the "Hogwarts Express" style compartments, openable windows, and the navy-uniformed conductor. It was just like I used to read about in my Enid Blytons when I was a child, and nothing like the sterile, super modern trains of Western Europe. I got on, and realised I had no idea what the compartment protocol is on this type of train. Do you have to ask if there is an available seat or just plonk yourself down next to someone that doesn't look smelly or about to launch into a long-winded description of their recent colonoscopy? Since my ability to ask in Polish about seat availability is absolutely nil, I opted for the plonk option. Thankfully some gallant Polish gentlemen helped me hoist my pack up to the luggage rack and pretty soon the navy-suited conductor (with big brass buttons!) opened our compartment door and demanded "Tickets please" (I assume). Once my interrail ticket had a hole punched in "Day 1", I settled in with my thick Larsson, resting my eyes occasionally on the countryside and peering anxiously at the signs every time we pulled into a station. Apparently the Polish do not see fit to mark all of the train stations with signs, apparently assuming that if you got on the damn train in the first place you already know where you are going. This was worrying, but I figured that Lublin being the capital of Malopolska (Little Poland) the signage for it would be not only existant, but capitalised, headline size and in bold type. And so it proved to be.

At the exit of the Lublin train station, I found the backpacker's dream - an enormous sign containing a street map of Lublin, which I immediately began to study in the hopes of locating my hostel. After a good few minutes of staring at the map and muttering, a nice Polish lady standing near me asked me in English if I needed any help. I admitted that while I had managed to locate my hostel on the map, I couldn't figure out where the train station was. She showed me, and then asked me how I planned to get there. When I told her I was going to walk she said "It's late, and it's going to get dark soon. The walk will probably take you more than half an hour. Wouldn't you prefer to take a taxi?". I hadn't felt unsafe at all in Poland, but when the locals tell me to take a taxi because it's getting dark, I bloody well take it. She advised me not to take the taxis at the station (too expensive) so she called a taxi from her mobile (she wouldn't use mine), took the trouble to explain to the operator exactly where I was going, that I didn't speak Polish, and where to pick me up. In short, my saviour in a skirt and red lipstick. We chatted a bit, she was commuting to Lublin for work, from Warszawa I suppose, but before I got a chance to find out anything else, her taxi whisked her away to her weekday hotel/home. My taxi came and took me to the hostel. You would think we wouldn't be able to communicate, but it's amazing how much you can achieve with only "Yes", "No" and generous use of facial expression and tone of voice. The taxi stopped, and I asked "Tak?", which means "Yes", but using it to mean "Is this the place?". The driver replied "Tak" in a definitive and authoritative tone of voice, which I took to mean "Yep, we're here". It really drives home what you always hear about 80% of communication being non-verbal.

The hostel guy was also lovely, English a little broken but more than adequate. The Polish have incredibly good English, but even when they don't they make up for it with lovely manners, warm smiles and good intentions. The hostel was very depressing, had all the style of a juvenile detention centre from the 60s:



However, all I wanted at that point was a shower and a bed, and for the measly sum of 30 złotys (just over 7 euro) the hostel provided me just that. And I was almost alone in the entire building, which, while adding to the general creepiness of the place, meant I had a dorm room all to myself, which, in my many years of travelling, I have realised is a luxury not to be sneezed at (or snored at).

Beautiful Sunday

Day two wasn't supposed to be Warszawa at all. As I had already visited in 2005 I was keen to fly in and then get out as fast as possible. Plan was to get on a train to Zamość first thing in the morning on Sunday... but, as is not uncommon, the plan unwove in the face of newly aquired information. Fact is, Warszawa city puts on a free outdoors Chopin concert every summer Sunday. How could I resist (and why would I?). So I forgot about the train for the moment and woke up to a gorgeous sunny day. I breakfasted with a couple of Czechs and a Canadian. One of the Czechs was wearing a John Lennon T-shirt, which made me chuckle to myself about my find the previous day. The Czechs had just come from Lublin, and they couldn't stop raving about how much they liked it. Remembering that Gosia had also recommended Lublin, I decided to put Zamość on hold and head straight there. But for the moment, I had a whole morning of lovely sunny Warszawa ahead of me before the concert at noon. First stop? With all of the museums and historical monuments that Warszawa has to offer, the attraction that most caught my eye was the statue of the Mermaid (Syreny). Mostly my reasons for going were literary; the name recalled Homer's terrifying and alluring singers, but also brought back childhood memories of "The Little Mermaid". I remember being sad when I reached the end of the book where the handsome prince married another woman, and the little mermaid becomes foam on the waves. And then being annoyed when I watched the Disney version and they changed the ending (you just can't please some people). But I digress. I set off in search of the Polish Syreny, which had the bonus of being situated just next to the Wisła (Vistula) which I had been dying to see. In the end, the Syreny was more remeniscent of Ariel than terrible man-eating beast, and the Wisła was shallow and murky. But I did see a boat put-putting along and a little kid with a balloon, so all was not lost in the picturesque department. Below you will find proof of the difficulty of auto-photography when you are trying to get yourself and a large, faraway object in the frame (note my perplexed look):




Here is a slightly better look at the statue:


After all that hard statue-gazing, it was clearly time to sample one of Warszawa's famed café bookshops (caffeine and ink - heaven). I decided to visit what is reputed to be Warszawa's oldest, Cuły Barbarzyńca, named in tribute to Czech author Bohumil Hrabal and his book "The Gentle Barbarian". It looked fabulous, crammed with bookshelves which were in turn crammed with thick, hardbacked volumes. I spied the coffee machine - a sleek and modern manual espresso the likes of which I had not spotted since Dublin (the "espresso" in Spain is made at the push of a button. Very disappointing). The top of the machine was lined with glistening white espresso cups, and I could easily imagine Warszawa's literati sipping dark-roasted short blacks atop the gleaming dark wood bar stools and island tables. Unfortunately, it was closed, but my trusty Warszawa tourist map pinpointed Kafka Café, conveniently within walking distance and also in keeping with what was turning out to be a very Czech morning. Kafka Café served the most delicious almond pastry I have ever tasted, and also the best coffee I could remember drinking for a long while. I dug further into "Men Who Hate Women", while sitting outside on the Kafka patio, enjoying the fresh air.

As usual for me, the book swallowed the rest of my morning and pretty soon it was time to head over to Łazienkowski‎ park for the concert. Łazienkowski‎ park is pretty huge, and I had no idea where the concert was supposed to be. But, on reaching the park borders, I simply turned on my best sheep impression and followed the streams of Warszawians until I reached a massive stone reproduction of Chopin, which I took to be the Chopin Monument. I parked myself in the sunshine and waited for the music to begin. What piece was played I unfortunately cannot say, as the announcement was made in Polish (however, they did explain in English at length about the concert series and pianist, who was also Polish). I can tell you that it was in "F molla", which I am assuming is F minor.

I enjoyed the concert thoroughly, though next time I will avoid sitting directly in the roasting sunshine and opt for the shade of a large tree. Warszawians are lucky to have this kind of free cultural event - I can't remember the last time I heard a classically trained professional play in Melbourne or Dublin for free (not counting Irish "fiddle dee dee" music). It seems classical music, literature, jazz and other expressions of supposedly "highbrow" culture are more part of Poland's national consciousness than in other countries, or perhaps it is just keenness to exploit one of their few internationally recognised citizens?

I had purposely not booked any accommodation, preferring to take it one day at a time and book as I went. So I needed to buy a Polish SIM card for my phone, to save precious złoty on mobile calls to hostels and tourist offices. Gosia told me to go to any kiosk and ask for a "Starter". Unfortunately, that was the only word I knew, so I put on my most inquiring tone of voice and said, "Starter, prosze?", to which the first two kiosk vendors replied...well, something long in Polish involving "Nie", so I figured they didn't have any. The third one did, and she handed me a box with Polish written on it, but two numbers (thank goodness for the universality of Arabic numerals!) on it, one of which I assumed was the price. There was a 5, and a 29. I figured 5 złoty was too cheap for a SIM (just over one euro) so I gave the woman 30 złoty, to which she said "Nie nie nie nie!" and pointed to the five. I handed over five złoty and gave thanks for the honesty of the Polish - had that been Spain or Argentina they would have grabbed the 30 złoty without even smiling.

Armed with my new communications device, it was time to make a move. Warszawa had been kind to me, but I was keen to keep moving and get some momentum up. I hauled my rucksack onto my back, slung my backpack onto my front, and, walking very very carefully keeping the "Peru Nose Incident" in mind, I toddled off to Warszawa Centralna. I had my Interrail pass (which thankfully was not still on the kitchen counter) meaning I didn't need to have a scary "ticket buying in Polish" moment just yet. Once I had the train timetable figured out, I was on my way to Lublin.

Welcome to Warszawa

The day finally arrived when I would be boading my Vueling (formerly Clickair) flight to Warszawa, and I was beside myself with excitement. I worried in the weeks beforehand as I was not looking forward to the trip at all - not dreading it, but not looking forward to it. But that was just because of the stress of moving, work, and the fact that I had not-very-conveniently decided, on a whim, to visit a friend in Valencia the weekend beforehand, leaving zero time to pack. Packing was a major logistical issue, mainly because all my stuff was still in piles of boxes, and I had no idea which ones contained clothes. Much like making dinner out of three unlabeled cans at the back of your kitchen cupboard, I packed my suitcase with whatever clothes I found first, threw in a couple of toiletries and extra socks, and away I went. Unfortunately, it was at this late stage I realised that I had no idea in which of the myriad boxes I had put the battery charger for the camera; a disaster for me but a blessing for you as now you only have to put up with the 20 or so pictures I will post for your amusement, and not the 4000 some people come back from holiday with (you know who you are).

On Saturday morning I turned off all the lights, took one last look around my new apartment, put the double lock on the door, and made my way down the four flights of stairs. Running out of the door, I ran through my mental checklist: Passport? Check. Plane tickets? Check. House keys, phone and wallet? Check. Very expensive Eurail ticket essential for my train travel in Poland? On kitchen counter. Damn. Up four fights of stairs, double lock off the door, grab the ticket, and mad rush to the waiting taxi. Finally on the plane with my trusty rucksack, I messaged Gosia to let her know I was on my way, and settled back to enjoy the flight. I had only brought two books, which for me is a ridiculously small amount for a two week holiday, but I consoled myself with the fact that they were each at least 300 pages. First up on the list: Men Who Hate Women, by Steig Larsson.

We touched down at Warszawa and I got the same feeling I always get in new country: what a pity that the first sight I have of this probably beautiful place is the stinking airport. But I got excited when I looked up to see "Citi Handlowy" and the angular face of the security guard. Everything already felt quite decidedly Polish, a breath of fresh air coming from homogenised Western Europe. Taxi to the hostel, I love złotys! It only cost me thirty of them to get from the airport to central Warszawa which is less than €10. Unfortunately, I was running super late to meet Gosia at the Warsaw Rising Museum (Muzeum Powstania Warszawskiego), so I dumped my bag at the hostel, asked the reception chick for directions, she drew me a little map, and I sped out the door. Although I hate to be late and keep people waiting, I came to an abrupt stop and stared in amazement when I spotted this little gem out of the corner of my eye:



It was a sign, literally and figuratively. While signalling the entrance of John Lennon street, it simultaneously indicated to me that Poland was most definitely going to agree with me. And I with it.

All we are saying is...

Rushing on to the Warsaw Rising museum with my total lack of geographic ability, I managed to go in completely the wrong direction for about fifteen minutes before I realised and turned back to the hostel. Finding a cab turned out to be tricky, but doable, and I finally found Gosia waiting paitiently for me at the museum door. Lucky I have my Latin blood to blame for my lateness; but in this sense I am very Australian and hate being anything but totally punctual. Gosia took me through the museum, which I had suggested we visit, but unfortunately the ambience didn't suit my mood at all. I was freshly arrived in a new city, at the beginning of my holidays, bursting with happiness, vigor and enthusiasm for exploration. The museum was very interesting but also dark and depressing, hilighting the futility of war and the enormous lengths some people will go to to give another set of people a hard time for no good reason. I saw video footage of a truck just running right over a man and crushing him, like a drink can, without even slowing. Disgusting.

It was a relief to get out into the open air and sunshine, and Gosia and I took a walk and had a good long talk, which was exactly what I was in the mood for. By chance, we walked by the mint, which I had to take a picture of, having visited the mint in Melbourne many times as a girl and remembering how strange it felt to be surrounded by so much money.

 Apparently a 40m2 flat in Warsaw will start around €70,000, which sounds reasonable to me having dealt with astronomical house prices in Dublin and Barcelona, but for your average Polish person I imagine that is quite a lot of money indeed. Gosia took me to a restaurant serving "typical Polish" food, and I ate some kind of potato pancake with a meat filling. Can't remember the Polish name, but it was very tasty and satisfying. Also on the table was a long tall glass of Warka, one of the many Polish beers I was to taste over the course of my trip, with fruit syrup in it (I think it was strawberry). The Poles love to put syrup in their beer. It's not my style, but I'll try anything once. Another Pole-ism: drinking beer out of straws. Never seen that before, but Gosia assures me it's very common. Weird.



Next up, a visit to the Old Town, which we got to walking down Nowy Świat (New World) street. This is the upmarket part of Warszawa apparently, and I did indeed see many well dressed people drinking overpriced coffee. Walking down the street, I was irritated by the roar of helicopters overhead, but didn't attach any importance to their presence until we arrived at the Plac Zamkowy (Castle Square). I was busy admiring the Royal Castle when suddenly hundreds of little pieces of cardboard began floating towards the ground. Gosia and I were surpised to see grown men and women rush about like children, eyes to the sky, as the wind took their prize one way, then another, down into their waiting hands. I finally managed to capture one and we eagerly pored over it to find out what on earth was going on. Each card had a poem on it - it was an initiative by a Warszawa museum, titled "Rain of Poems". I breathed an enormous sigh of happiness. I can't think of another country where people would get so excited about poetry that a rain of poems would cause such a commotion. Since I was expecting some kind of crass marketing ploy, I was elated to find that this stunt was being pulled to celebrate literature, not consumerism. Poland just went up about a thousand points in my estimation.

We took a walk in the Warszawa Old Town (Stare Miasto), which is one of the squillion UNESCO World Heritage Sites of which the country can boast. Unfortunately it was night time and I didn't really absorb fully how lovely it is. In any case, the situation was improved by ice-cream, then we took the tram home, where I fell gratefully into bed.

Poland: Prelude

Anyone who lives near the Mediterranean can tell you - August is a dead month. Opening hours are reduced, some restaurants even close (but don't expect them to advertise the fact, you'll just find a note on the door of your favourite little tapas place to the effect of "Back September 1") and everyone who is anyone goes on holidays. This year is a little different, we have a financial crisis to contend with, and nobody has any money, so most people are just staying with family in other parts of Spain. But my only family either a) lives four blocks from my house or b) lives 13,000 kilometers from my house, so neither of those two options appealed much. Next best option for crisis-friendly travelling: somewhere reachable by low-cost airlines with a favourable exchange rate. 4 złotys to the euro? Destination: Poland!

In truth my original idea had been to go by train from Warsaw to Budapest, via Slovakia, Hungary, Czech Republic, and anything else I could squeeze in. But I was so wrapped up in work, and the paperwork for buying the house, and moving, that I couldn't be bothered planning the itinerary. Besides, I liked the idea of seeing a lot of one country. I tend to say I've "been to" France, when I have visited only Paris and Lyon, and "been to" Germany, having seen only Berlin and München. This is technically the truth, but France is not just Paris, and there is much more to Germany than the Berlin wall and funny traffic light men.  Since the company I work for has a branch in Poland, I felt very connected to the place, and the many Polish friends I had made in Dublin increased my curiosity. Not to mention I was dying to taste pierogi!

Practically all the water cooler talk at the office in July centres around summer holiday plans. "Puzzled" would be the way I would describe the almost universal reaction I received when I told people I was planning a trip to Poland. "I'm planning to travel around Poland." I would announce, with a smile of happy anticipation. "What, just Poland?" was the most common reply. "Who are you going with?", they would continue, probably thinking that at least in good company my vacation wouldn't be so horrendously dull. "Oh, just me. I'm going to interrail, and I couldn't really find anyone else that wanted to interrail around Poland, so I'm going by myself". At this point they were so stunned that a young woman was actually going to backpack by rail around an ex-iron curtain state BY HERSELF, that they almost couldn't think of anything to say. "Er, well, have fun then", they would stammer, before swiftly changing the topic. But I was quietly confident that they were all wrong about Poland, that they hadn't a clue what they were talking about, and that once I got there I would find the proof that I needed that Poland is a special, unique place. And so it proved to be, surpassing even my greatest expectations.


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It Can Be Fun! Promise!

Every time I do it, I swear it will never happen again. The pain and sense of loss is too great. This time, I tell myself, I will just be happy with what I have. But in the end, the itch to change comes over me, and I have to face it again.

Moving house.

Anyone that's done it is intimately familiar with the sense of dread. How, how, how do you accumulate so much stuff? Stuff you like, stuff you need, stuff you neither like nor need...yes, the broken lamps, ripped bags and cables you haven't the faintest idea what to plug into are still somewhere in your living space, although if someone asked you why on earth you still have this rubbish, the only response you can offer is a baffled expression.

Usually, when I have moved house, I have either a) only brought one rucksack full of stuff (like when I moved to Dublin) or b) had help as was moving with other people. This time I have a house full of crap (two people's crap, to be exact) and my loving partner has just departed to Ulan Baator for a six week road trip with three other guys (i.e. 24/7 toilet humour, burping, and talking about boobs). So I am on my own with this one. While this may sound like I got a bit of a crappy deal, let me point out some highlights of this arrangement:

1) I have the house to myself for the first five weeks, which means I get to decide what goes where. When Erik gets back he will be too tired to complain and after that it will be TOO LATE to change anything! Bwahahahaha!

2) I can be absolutely sure all the 500 page hardback cookbooks are not packed in the same box.

3) An across the board reduction of 85% of the nagging involved in the whole operation.

4) Possibly the best part: when I get home from work in the afternoons to pack boxes, I can blast my iTunes at top volume - think Katrina and the Waves, Robbie Williams, Hanson, S Club 7, the B 52's, Jennifer Lopez, the Bay City Rollers, Britney Spears and Ricky Martin. I wish I was kidding. I'm sorry, but La Copa De La Vida is the best World Cup song there has ever been and probably will ever be. It's physically impossible to stay on your butt when that song comes on. It should be a new Natural Law: "Any inanimate sentient being, when 'La Copa de la Vida' is applied to it, will gain chemical energy and subsequently expend kinetic energy". So when the iTunes flips to Ricky, I can interrupt stuffing crap into boxes to dance scantily clad (it's a million degrees!) around my living room without any eye rolling or the sound of hands being clapped forcefully over ears. And when I have packed and danced until the sweat is dripping (it's a million degrees, remember) I can go to the fridge and crack open an ice cold Quilmes without anyone giving me an "it's a bit early in the afternoon to be skulling weak Argentinian beer, isn't it?" eyebrow.

So, although moving is a right royal pain in the derrière, I don't have a driving license for the right side of the road (thank god I have friends) and Erik has vanished in a puff of smoke (let it be said, for the record, that this is Not His Fault, it is just bad timing), so far I am actually enjoying it. I will probably amend this viewpoint after I have lugged all the boxes up five flights of stairs with no elevator, but for now, I'm having a fabulous time.

Easy 7 Step Guide: Taking Out a Mortgage in Spain

Oh man, I'm so stressed out. I didn't even realise it until the other day. This mortgage thing is driving me INSANE, I cannot wait for it to be over. This is how it has gone for us:

Step 1: Here in Spain they won't look askance at giving you a mortgage until you've already paid a deposit on a house. So step one is househunting. Anybody that has ever done it knows how much of a drag that is. I solved that particular problem by setting a "Two viewing sessions a week" rule. No more than two nights a week looking at properties, because otherwise your social life is dead in the water, the laundry and dishes pile up, you only have time to wash your hair once a week, and your blood pressure rises to about 3000 mmHg. So using the very advanced and soon to be patented "Two Nights a Week" system, we managed to find a very well-located, large (for us), and thankfully well priced apartment. After knocking 8 grand off the asking price (gotta love a buyer's market), we had this bit done and dusted.

Step 2: Round one of the banks. In reality this step begins halfway through step one, but I'm not in the mood to make a flowchart, so you're just gonna have to imagine it. You go to all the different banks you can find, talk to the manager, and they give you glossy brochures indicating the conditions of the extremely competitive mortgages they are offering. This step is a pain in the arse in every possible way, and also, we found out later, essentially useless because they tell you the advertised interest rates (very attractive) which they only actually give to extremely rich people or the son of the bank manager. In reality they will find any reason to disqualify you for that mortgage package and charge you a king's ransom in fees and interest rates. Therefore, take note, fellow property investors, next time around I will skip this step, and go straight for step 4, but somewhere in here you gotta...

Step 3) Pay the deposit on the house. You agree to the price, and put down 10% of this amount. In return the vendors promise not to sell it to anyone else. If you don't end up buying it, you forfeit the money. If the vendors sell it to someone else, they have to pay you back double. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal, until you realise that to take out the mortgage, you have to have this signed. So, not only do you have to commit to buying a house you are not at all sure you can pay for, you have to agree to a date by which to have the house bought (in our case, July 31). You don't have the money by then, you lose the deposit, but the sign date is completely out of your control and you are at the mercy of the banks which as we all know, are generally risk-averse, cautious, and very, very slow to get anything done. Why can't you set a date for sometime in 2050? Because after years of property boom in Spain, when some properties were bought within hours of coming onto the market, the system hasn't changed and the expectations of the seller are still the same. So if you ask for too much time, they just tell you to jump in the lake and sell it to someone who will commit to the money faster. It's nonsense, but it's the way it is.

Step 4: Round 2 of banks: Begin taking the mortgage out with several banks, and thus find out the REAL conditions they are offering. If I told you that this step involved a mountain of paperwork, I would be underselling it. Thank god for the 21st century and the prevalence of scanners and Adobe Reader, or I would have felled the Daintree with all the photocopies. Deposit contract, ID, work contracts, registration documents of the property of we are buying, six months of bank statements, work history, job contracts of our two previous employments, three payslips, plus all of this again for Erik's parents who have kindly agreed to be guarantors, registration documents of their assets, on and on ad nauseum. I understand that there will be some red tape involved if someone (or thing) is going to lend you an exhorbitant amount of money, but by the sixth time they come back to you for more documentation, your heart really does begin to sink a bit.

Step 5: Denials. Not that there are not acceptations as well, but the denials come faster. And thicker. Bank employees know a lost cause when they see one, and the Spanish character makes it impossible for them to work on something one second more than they absolutely have to. This means that if you're out, you know it straight away.

Step 6: The waiting game. After you have sent in all the papers (or, what they said was all the papers, just you wait, sucker!) you sit back and wait for Mr. and Ms. Actuary Risk Assessors in the bank to decide whether you are risky business or not. Will you default on your mortgage? Will you go bankrupt? Will you spend your life savings on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Antartica from which you never return? These are the important questions that face the Risks department every day. More often than not the only thing you hear from them is requests for more paper, and other than that communication is scarce. From the beginning of step 4 to here will take 3-4 weeks. Every day within those weeks will be filled with anxiety. Your fingers will tap, your stomach will knot, your concentration at work will wane, and you will lose sleep. But with luck, and a healthy salary, you should be able to make it to...

Step 7: Acceptation! Congratulations, say hello to your brand new baby mortgage! I can't really tell you much about this step yet, but I hope to fill you in once I get there...

The most money I've ever held in my hand

Must be funny, in a rich man's world

We found a house we want to buy! It's in a great, family-oriented neighbourhood, right off the main (pedestrian) street, very close to my workplace and the metro, and about 70 square metres for the both of us. Yes, it's very exciting but it is yet another disheartening anecdote which proves that intentions are not always matched with ability. Of course we would love to buy the place - the banks do not exactly share our enthusiasm, or confidence in our financial situation. Apparently, to be trustworthy in the eyes of a recessionary bank, you have to be working in the same job on a long term contract for two years. Just moved to Spain? Fuggedabadit. So we are busting our chops to prove (via email and internet forms) to the Risk department of several Spanish (and English) banks that we are really reliable people who make plenty of money and will not be losing our jobs any time soon. This is even more difficult than it sounds. It is so much easier to say "No, we won't help you take the first step into the property market" to someone whose face you have never seen, and so much harder to convince someone you are reliable, hard-working and trustworthy when your disarming smile and likeable manner cannot be used as persuasion tools.

That said, should everything work out, I will finally have a good comeback for all those annoying "So, when is the wedding?" comments. 'Cause in my eyes, a mortgage is a way more binding commitment than a marriage. Who needs to trade shiny rings when you share a "think about it too much and you'll break into a cold sweat"-size debt?

The Poland trip is coming along too. I have a vague itinerary, you can look at it here. I have 16 days to squeeze all that in! Anyone who has been to Poland, tell me which of these I can leave out... I would leave out Krakow for fear of multitudes of tourists but cannot resist the lure of the Tartars or miss a chance to visit Auschwitz. I wasn't going to go, after having experienced Dachau and the subsequent depression, but I think it's something one should see and dwell on for a while. Most of all, I'm looking forward to travelling by myself; I haven't done that since the Americas in 2005/2006 and that was one of the best trips of my life. No compromises, suckah! Erik will be rallying it up in Asia, so I don't have to worry about him. Well, I don't have to worry about him being lonely, I still have to worry that he will get arrested in Glormenistan (or something) for making fun of a police officer (or similar "crime") and given a life sentence with no conjugal visits. And that he will have left me to pay the mortgage, which is clearly the important thing here.

And I thought we wouldn't have to do this again in Barcelona...

Another day, another flat. Yes, we're flathunting again. What? Yes, again. Why? We're sick of handing over an obscene amount of rent every month so someone we have only met twice. Might as well pay the money to the big bad banks and have something to show for it at the end of 30 years. So we are preparing to get up to our eyeballs in debt and take out our very first mortgage. I took a lot of convincing, and Erik, my parents, my cousin and his wife all had to work on me for a couple of months before my completely risk-averse self finally came around to the idea that a mortgage is more like a couple of dumbbells tied onto your arms with cord than a ball and chain with a rusty lock whose key has been thrown into the Atlantic. I hate debt, I hate owing people money, especially to mean people who would think nothing of throwing Erik and I onto the street if we can't meet the payments, and are really not very smart, considering they caused the current global financial crisis and are the proponents of the current credit freeze that is making life so difficult for individuals and small business to make it through the recession. At least we are buying in a recession, not in the property bubble of the previous years. With properties losing up to 60% of their value, I think I would be committed to an institution with severe depression right now if I had bought a house this time last year.

But who wants to talk about the recession? Oh, nobody, that's what I thought. Onto happier things. My mate Joanna came to visit me for a whole week! It was great catching up and being able to hang around with an Aussie for a change! While I toddled off to work every day she slept in and took in the sights, in the afternoons we got together and had some lovely walks and dinners (and of course, non-stop chats). The bonus of her visit is that she found a warehouse of a store that I really like, SkunkFunk (Basque brand!) with really cheap stuff about five minutes from my house! Thanks Janna, I will never be able to make it up to you! The only pity is that they don't have any clothes suitable for work, because the trousers I have been using are about two or three sizes too big for me and I just can't deny any longer that they look ridiculous. I look like "Bozo the Clown Goes to the Office". Tomorrow morning I am getting up early and hitting H&M and Zara and getting some pants that stay up. And maybe some shoes (I have been wearing the same pair to work for the last three months. Thanks to Erik's mum, who gave them to me).

The credit card will get a bit of a workout, which should make it super fit thanks to the exercise I gave it the other day on the clickair website. I am planning a trip to Poland in August, two wonderful weeks in this close, but strangely quite unknown land.

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!