On returning from Barcelona, I set my sights on making the move, and pouring all my energy into searching for a position in Spain. I wasn’t too concerned about the field, but more the opportunity to relocate, and of course, finally being able to use my languages.
My days now consisted of listening to the Gypsy Kings on repeat and scrolling the LinkedIn job app like a woman possessed. Any role that caught my eye was immediately applied to. It was going to happen.
Beautiful Barcelona: the decision-maker.
Reaching the end of the year, Christmas came round, and I was happy to spend it at home. There are lots of aspects about the English winter that I don’t love (okay, I detest). However, I must admit that despite the intense commercialisation and overbearing pressure to succumb to the (bloody expensive) festive spirit, nothing really compares to being in your new fluffy jammies, sat by the Christmas tree, and sipping on Bucks Fizz at 7 am, surrounded by a (dis)array of Quality Street wrappers. Heating’s on, Mum’s busy preparing breakfast and you’re already wolfing down your second mince pie of the day. Jingle Bells plays softly in the background as Dad (in Santa hat) hovers over with the big black bin-liner, waiting for my sister to tear open ‘just one more’ of her presents before we eat. And all the while, it’s miserable, cold and wet outside. I live for Christmas morning at home.
Then follows the week of the withdrawn.
What day is it? Who knows? Is the year over yet? Are there anymore turkey sandwiches? Do we take the Christmas lights down? How am I working today but not tomorrow? Wait – then I have another day off next week – oh my god is it still December? Someone fetch a calendar! NOT THE ADVENT ONE !!
Wooly hats always go down a treat in this household
And so ensued the madness; everyone at work was in a slight post-roast slumber, walking around in a sugar-induced daze and making lots of chat about what St Nick had dropped in their stockings this year. I myself was in a bit of a festive limbo, but still going hard at work on every ‘Apply’ button I saw. Keen to make 2016 my year, (pretend you haven’t heard that before) I felt like seeing out the year with a little celebration; even though I’d learnt London living wasn’t for me, 2015 was still a success-story; I had graduated, managed to hold a proper job in a respectful company, and even had more than a tenner in my savings account (also had enough spare to buy mum a new kettle!). I was getting there. So I fancied celebrating these little milestones/victories with a couple of my nearest and dearest; it seemed like the perfect opportunity to go down to Pompey again and visit Joe and Xav.
My lovely friends and former Fort-fun flatmates were happily residing by the seaside and still enjoying the benefits of Portsmouth life, sans dissertation – all of our fave student hangouts, and none of the lectures. It had been for what felt like forever since I’d seen them both and even longer since I’d strolled along the streets of Southsea, so I was very much looking forward to it. As was Dobby.
“Wait are you going for new years? Oh I wish I could come!”
“Why don’t you?”
“Ooh…Should I?”
She was back from Barcelona to celebrate Christmas with the fam, and so decided to join me for what was to be a lovely reunion.
Pumped from the excitement of the grand get-together, wine, and lots of cheese (the key to a long-lasting friendship) we saw in the new year at Joe and Xav’s pad, Bieber in the background (please read the next sentence before judgement), second bottle of cheap Merlot down, and half-way through an intense board game (the fun kind, that involves terrible attempts at charades and lots of French people shouting).
He’s so handsome what’s his name? – Xavier, it’s Xavier.
Sweethearts
You will always find me in the kitchen at parties
NYE ’15
Midnight had passed and we’d gotten to that weird part of the evening/early hours where the conversation becomes all about reminiscing and recalling fads, or in this case, ads from the past, “Do you remember Von Dutch caps?” “As clearly as I remember mesh t-shirts; with regret.”
An half-eaten box of Jaffa cakes on the side sparked a memory which made it impossible to resist acting out the whole 90s advert – YOU KNOW THE ONE. This quickly became the theme of the night, and as we did a circuit of Portsmouth pubs before heading back home (via kebab shop), screams could be heard of ‘PLEINE LUNE’ ‘DEMI LUNE’ and of course ‘TOTAL ECLIPSE’ – those screams mainly coming from myself.
Obviously on a massive NEW YEAR NEW ME high, I was in a state of merry elation, and a call from my best friend could only make this better; turns out Joshua was in the same booze fueled stupor, only he was celebrating miles away, in the middle of the Spanish capital, with his boss and some colleagues. A lovely drunken exchange ensued; there were laughs, ‘Happy new year!’s, ‘I miss you’s and excited commentary of our nights up until now. Just as we were about to end the call, I send Josh my love and tell him *in jest* “let me know if they have any vacancies”.
What followed was a jokey exchange with his boss on speaker phone in a sort of interview role play, which we all laughed about the next day, until, it turns out, it was kind of for real.
kebab queens<3
I woke up on the boys’ blow up mattress the next day; “What a night” “Did we get Dominoes? If not, why not?” “Can we watch Frozen?” – All the things one contemplates the morning after the night before.
Joshua was video-calling me. I had my favourite doggy pijamas on and my hair was what could only be described as a rough looking bird’s nest.
“Sam they want to interview you.”
“Josh what”
“I know”
“But…”
So the following Monday, I had my interview.
Hours before I’d been shouting in French about full moons, and now sitting there in fluffy socks and 8 year old pijamas, everything was possibly about to change.
London. Blighty. The Big Smoke. And the place I will always call home.
As much as I whine and moan (comes with the territory) about the horrendous weather, traffic, doom, gloom and to top it all off, the extortionate cost of living we have to endure, I will always love my city. It can be grey, gritty and at times not the friendliest of places, but it has that certain special something that no other city has; there is just none other quite like it.
Living in the ‘burbs for most of my life meant that the illusion of going ‘up-town’ was still very much a thing – we were a 25 minute train-ride away, so it was close, but we still reaped the benefits of town tranquility that comes with bordering the Kentish countryside.
Coming home for Easter and Christmas during my university days was always fun, and going into the city for the day (or boozy night-out) was always a thrill.
Working in London left me with mixed feelings.
For the love of God please DO NOT STAND ON THE LEFT
As mentioned in my previous post, the daily commute had gotten me down a tad, and going out for a couple of post-work drinkies was becoming less and less enjoyable because of this rat-race lifestyle.
The trudge from Southeast London to East London everyday (put into perspective is no matter of distance at all), added at least a couple of extra hours onto my working day, and as a result, I took to looking for distractions, so the week would go by quicker, as sad as it sounds.
Again, I wasn’t the only one.
“I’m off to Pompey this weekend for a flat reunion, then next weekend I’m going out-out with the lot from home, then the week after we have team drinks, so I think I’m all good for this month. And of course in between that we have our lovely weekly catch-ups (booze-ups).”
Porgeous and I were always trying to make the most of our weekends (and general space outside of working hours), because:
It gave us something to look forward to, and
Frankly if we didn’t, my life would have just been spreadsheets and staring at the back of a stranger’s head on the train.
We were are young, we finally had a bit of extra dosh to enjoy, and we were determined to find the time to do so. So we did. And what fun we had.
Did someone say happy hour?
Hangout
As we were welcomed into the week with Mojito Mondays, Tequila Fridays ushered us into the weekend with a not so gentle push, and lots of chat of Italian days in the sun and the trifles of London-living so far. A few Fridays of the month, we’d meet up with our fabulous Clare after work, another Modena darling, who had a flair for languages and the unbelievable skill of making a chilled cocktail or two turn into tequila debauchery and an unintentional Zoo Bar fiesta. I couldn’t (still can’t) say no to the girl.
The working week was long, but Chiquitos opened its doors to us (almost) every Friday, with it’s ridiculously tasty garlic bread, latino vibes and strong (the best kind) mixers. It provided as a welcoming refuge from the reality of the adult lives we were now living. A couple of drinks in and we’d already be talking about the places we used to go, the people we’d met on the way and how much we were in love with the continental way of doing things. Oh, how we wished for sunshine and longed for Europop-trash blaring on our radios once more!
A few colourful beverages later and we were falling over ourselves laughing, it was just like our pre-drinks back in the day, only we’d swapped our backdrop for Friday night Leicester Square, which was now AT FULL BUZZ. It was around this time that I’d check my phone and realise how close to 12 it was, which normally meant me having to hastily leave then and there to catch the very last train home.
“You can stay at mine Sam, my Grandma’s house is like a twenty minute walk from here”
She said this every time, and every time I’d find myself waking up in Baker St the next morning, gossiping with Clare over a sugary cuppa and chuckling over laughs we’d all had in Chiquitos the night before. And I loved it. London can be so fun when you don’t have to make like Cinderella and flee the bar before midnight.
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As surprising as it might sound, I also enjoyed London in the daytime! Weekends are gold-dust. I don’t think this is just applicable to my working life at the time, but in general. Whatever the job, wherever you are – Free time is ME time. For myself, it was a good opportunity to spend some time with the family, who I only saw during the week when I was crabby/stuffing my face with a cereal bar as I hurried to get out the door. It was also a good excuse to enjoy the city outside of the rush hour. And when it wasn’t raining, it was a rather pleasant place to be.
For instance, one of my favourite spots in the city, despite being an obvious choice for tourists, is Covent Garden. Lined with street performers and crowds giving it the old OOOOH AHHHH, it may come as a surprise that this busy patch of London is actually right up my street – and it stands for everything I love. In the spring/summer at least. Windy streets leading up to the open piazza, a beautifully restored market, and a multitude of delightful (some extremely fancy) restaurants and bars, that on a sunny day, extend their invitation further by placing alluring seats outside. Just irresistible. Anything al fresco on a half-decent day and I’m sold.
And that was just one of many pretty places in the city I liked to frequent. Exploring eateries mainly; that was my weekends covered. During the week, in between reading my books on the train and drinking umpteen cups of tea at the office (not a complaint, remember, there’s no team without tea), I set my Wednesdays aside for a midweek Italian meal with the Tripod. Georgina and Lacy are my two oldest and best friends, and even though all three of us have taken very different vocational paths in life, (animals, hospitals, banks), it has made our friendship all the more interesting.
Welcome to Neal’s Yard, Covent Garden, adding a splash of colour to the often monochromatic London.
I would arrive at our favourite local eatery, La Cantina, umbrella normally in hand, to find Georgina sat at our table (we were regulars), ready for confirmation to order the bottle of Rose. A nod from the door indicated YES. Lacy also worked in the city, and we would normally arrive around the same time, ready to update Georgina on the state of the rail service that day. She in turn would share with us an outlandish but one hundred percent true story about her working day, involving angry kittens, scratches, and on one particularly crazy day, snakes.
We would update each other on our weeks, how it was all going, but not just that; we’d discuss our aspirations, our long and short-term goals, and how, or rather what we were doing in terms of reaching them. We would build each other up, celebrate each others successes, those achievements big and small, and provide the laughs and pick me ups (and obviously tea too) when things weren’t going so well.
I do remember one Wednesday in particular, and we’d all had just about enough. This tripod meeting was essential. Tomaso, the manager at the time, made sure we had our table, and at this point, he didn’t even have to ask. Either he knew us too well, or our faces said it all. Two minutes after we’d taken our seats, the Rosé found her place at the table too.
The first sip helped release stress which had accumulated throughout the day, and after taking our turns to rant it out, we shared our concerns, offered suggestions, and munched over what could be done to make things better. The food was fantastic, and came second only to the company, which was always first-class. We usually chatted for going on twenty minutes, all the while holding onto our menus, pretending we were going to order something other than our usual choice. Mussels to start, followed by a deceiving serving of spaghetti ai gamberetti , another bottle of rosé, and of course, a helpful portion of homemade tiramisu.
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Dinner down the local Italian every week with a couple of old friends may sound tediously conventional to some – on the contrary, these evenings were anything but. There were cackles, insanely descriptive and animated storytelling and the odd cheeky reference to days of Yore (aka primary school). These nights gave me such pleasure, especially when the working week made it more difficult to fit in gym nights, and quick pints, let alone a meaningful dinner out with friends.
We’d gotten onto the topic of my life’s purpose.
“What do you want to do then Sammy?”
“I really miss living abroad.”
“Are you thinking of leaving the UK again?”
“Yes.”
Every time I said it out aloud, the possibility became more real, and the girls only spurred me on to try and turn the idea into an actual plan. My problem was that I was more theory than practice.
Fed up with London, I had previously booked a ticket to visit Ali, my girl from Galicia, who was currently studying for a Masters in Barcelona. Since I’d started my Canary Wharf career I’d not had a holiday, save for a sweet weekend away in Pompey, and I felt like it was needed. A break – from work, the grey surroundings, and my own ranting; and also an opportunity to see what life might be like should I choose to go ahead with my **dream**.
Carry-on case packed, out-of-office email set, off I went to Barca.
When I came back, it had been decided. The job search had actively begun, and Spain was the destination once more.
I’d found my motivation.
And to think, four days in the sunshine was all it took.
November 4th 2015: Of all the days when it’s pissing it down and there’s a strike, my umbrella decides to suddenly break, and crumple, with my head trapped inside GOOD MORNING
This is an extract from ‘Life of Sam’ during the post-graduation chapter. Going on from my last blog post, I had returned from Erasmus, I had s t r u g g l e d through the everlasting sentence that was final year and somehow had come out on the other end, all be it scarred (from essay writing), but in tact (corner shop wine) and ready to be unleashed on the working world; language degree in hand, LinkedIn profile shiny and updated.
After going through a little bit of a funny limbo period (mini-breakdown), believe it or not, I finally joined the 9-5 army.
Through some kind of miracle (a good network and lots of optimism), I had found myself employed, and not just in any old position, but in one working for a global investment bank – I had my foot in the door of the finance sector. Plot twist, am i right?
Those of you who knew me before my stint in Canary Wharf will know that numbers were not exactly my forte (think calculation lady meme) and money, well, it was an interest – but mainly when it came down to spending it. Still true. On telling my friends that I was to start a new job they congratulated me with glee, and on discovering the position, they reacted with slight confusion, a look that said ‘but…why finance?’ and finally the old ‘fair enough’ acceptance nod.
Bright-eyed and bushy tailed
I myself was R E A D Y to work and to take on all the things that came with it (a wage, mainly); nevertheless, I did start to feel a small pang of self-doubt running up to my first day, and I must admit that I did arrive an hour early for my orientation session – overly keen or extremely nervous, you decide.
Being shown to my assigned floor, I was led through the open office, past various teams belonging to different departments. It felt corporate and intimidating and basically everything I wasn’t familiar with, and suddenly I felt like a child pretending to be an adult, wearing grown-up work clothes which didn’t quite fit right.
Oh my God they’re going to know I’m a phoney aren’t they? They’ll know I nearly failed maths A-level; this is a nightmare – quick how do I get back to the lifts, before I introduce myself to people I will definitely have to hide from for the rest of my working days?!
Anxiety it seems was a big factor for me that morning.
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried so much. And everytime I find myself in a similar situation, i.e. embarking on something new, I try to remind myself of how I felt that very morning, and how it all seems so silly now, in retrospect.
I was actually incredibly lucky to have been part of the team I was assigned to. Everyone was down-to-Earth, we had each other’s backs with tasks, and the thing I enjoyed the most was, we had a laugh. Lots of them in fact. Also we had a lovely Friday morning tradition of going downstairs for breakfast together, which I do really miss (I ended up with maple syrup on my keyboard once but I don’t think anyone found out, so it’s all good). Being part of this little unit made a world of difference, and the work I was doing itself was new, mostly unfamiliar, but actually very interesting.
Playground
Fast forward a few months to when I wrote that status. It was a rainy day, and the weather matched my mood entirely. I was more confident in my work-space and had more or less gathered what went where and who did what (also when the best time to take lunch was to avoid the herds), and yet, something was not quite right.
I had an itch.
My Dad used to work uptown back in the day, and was a regular commuter – he warned me of being trapped by the city when I was younger.
“What do you mean trapped??”
“Sam, I’m telling you, you’ve got to get out there, don’t get stuck. I used to work in the city and I’d see the same faces, on the same train, every morning, every evening, same carriages – same seat sometimes. I left London for a while after that and came back to a city job 10 years later.
There they were – same train, same carriage, same seats. Older faces”
I thought he was exaggerating slightly, and being a tad melodramatic, but there you go.
Wasn’t til that day I got caught up (quite literally) in my umbrella, that I understood what he really meant. I liked my job and I didn’t really have much of a plan before starting it, but by GOD I HATED THE JOURNEY. I HATED IT SO DAMN MUCH.
Day to day
Everyday was the same, the same grey day, the same waiting for the SouthEastern train that was ALWAYS delayed and that was more than likely missing 3 of it’s original 8 carriages. I would pick up a copy of the Metro everyday, and wait at the same point on the platform, which I knew now for certain, was where the train doors belonging to the fourth carriage would open. I would board and find the most convenient seat available (not too close to the doors that you end up with a bag in your face, or the jealous stares of fellow commuters; and not too far down the carriage that you became trapped when it came time to get off). I would get to my desk exactly 30 minutes before I was required to start, and would return home almost two hours after leaving it in the evening. This was not through choice – London’s transport system had well and truly screwed me over, and I was done, SO done.
The commuting started to feel like work itself – everyone was very professional and elegant in their suits and shiny shoes, until it came to train-time and the rules of etiquette no longer applied. In addition to the delays and constant broken promises (LIIIIIESS) delivered by SouthEastern, we also had to endure the barging, sweaty pits, aggressive nudging, elbows to the face, and absolute worst; pushing IN FRONT OF ME IN THE LINE- WHAT KIND OF MONSTER DISRESPECTS THE QUEUING SYSTEM?!
Tolerating this day to day got me riled; it didn’t take long before I decided some things just weren’t worth it. I started hanging around Canary Wharf after work, just to avoid getting on the busiest train home – when I got bored of that, I started going up to central to entertain myself for a few hours before taking the safe and stress-free train home (there was even the possibility of nabbing a seat!) I didn’t want to start spending too much on clothes or make-up I didn’t need any more of (staff had started to recognize me in the local Zara), and so one evening I found myself in a bookstore on my way to Charring Cross. It was so calm – a hidden cove of peace away from the turmoil that was my daily route home.
Down to the grind
Having still been a recent graduate, supposedly I should have been in a job which required the skills my degree entailed, and even though I felt okay in my position and very happy and grateful in terms of the experience on my CV, part of me felt a little twang of disappointment as I browsed the ‘Foreign Language’ section of the bookshop. The Spanish section called out to me, and proved hard to leave. Half an hour later and twenty or so pounds shorter, I bobbed along to the station – being a huge book worm at heart, and having the opportunity to go back to what I loved studying just gave me that extra spring in my step. I’ll stop being cheesy in the next paragraph. Apologies.
Reading, not from a tablet/mobile phone/kindle/digital thingymajig, but from a good old hardback, paper page turner, combined with a stable set of earphones, is without a doubt the best way to escape the reality of your morning commute (also the number one reason for almost missing your stop). I was engrossed in these new books I had recently picked up, and no longer felt the gloom that hovered over me at the beginning of every working day, or at least, not as much. I had really missed reading in Spanish, and I was a little bummed that getting through the first few passages proved more difficult than it should’ve been.
I was, it would seem, out of practice. It made me question a few things.
“How could this happen? I can speak Spanish. I was there only five months ago (a pre-results getaway to the good ole South). Have I lost it? Wait. What am I doing?”
I shared my thoughts with Porgeous on one of our Monday mojito nights (the cocktail deals and cheap calamari were too good to refuse, it literally got us through til Wednesday).
“I miss Erasmus. It is just so grey here.” *sips crushed sugar from the bottom of mojito* “Sam can we go back? Do you remember those cocktails in Modena?” *both pause for a moment and sigh* “Carys told me she went to the beach last month – OCTOBER.”
Beaming banking babes
With a few of our nearest and dearest friends living abroad, we were both suffering from extreme FOMO, and jealousy – we were not living our best lives in the sun, nor using our languages while doing it. It seemed to become a running theme; loving the London lifestyle and finally having money to enjoy, well, life; but also constantly reminiscing about the Mediterranean times that were and having those sweet memories be cut short because we had to run for the last train home.
We took a last swig at the icy remnants of our mojitos before wrapping up in ALL of the layers, bracing ourselves for the outside. We waddled towards the station arm in arm, battling against the wind, before parting ways with a big hug and a sigh.
‘Same time next week?’
‘Of COURSE’
On the train home a few things kept running through my mind. Like they always do on a weeknight journey home.
‘Oh god I really hope I’ll get home soon. Okay it’s fine, at this rate after I’ve showered, gotten into pjs (and maybe nibbled on a bit of leftover dins) I should be in bed by 11. 11.30 max. Ooh that’s late… Well it’s not midnight, I’ll be fine. I didn’t drink too much… hmm, better drink loads of water before bed, I don’t want a headache in the morning…’
Then I paused.
What was wrong with me. I hated this feeling. I couldn’t even enjoy a few drinks after work with my friend.
And it seems that Porgeous was sharing my sentiments too.
NEW WHATSAPP MESSAGE RECEIVED.
‘On the tube but it’s delayed and someone definitely just let off a stinker in this carriage. I wish we could have cocktails every night. I miss our Erasmus lives.’
Venice at night was completely different, and it made me love it all the more. The element of prettiness was still very much there, only it became even more romantic in a way, and was just as inviting. I couldn’t for the life of me tell you whereabouts our little evening stroll had taken us, but it most probably included the streets which only hours before, we were barging our way through.
In preparation for our wait-out in Bologna, we sought out a mini supermarket for snacks and fizzy drinks (this was also in preparation for the looming hangover, which we knew was most definitely coming for us at some point).
After this, believe it or not, we got a bit peckish.
Strolling with plastic bags in hand and weary yet curious looks on our faces, we found ourselves in a charming romantically-lit eatery (after the coin/eyeliner incident there was no shame to be had in our scraggly and by no means graceful appearance). We just wanted a little something (cheap, we wanted CHEAP), so looking at the menu we decided a litre carafe of white wine (house, obvs) and a cheese board (to share) would be most suitable.
The waiter gathered we weren’t his average diners.
“Maybe some bread too” Dobby chimed in.
So I lied about the three-part story thing. Whoops.
“Hello my darling, are you busy? Are you at work? Not working on that blog post though are you?-
Sam if you need to do a fourth blog post then just do it”
Lovely (not to mention sassy) Casalooch had a good point. So here we are. The actual *final* part to our little Italian adventure…
Tick Tock.
We had a couple of hours til the train was due (missing this one was not an option) and so we found ourselves being very, VERY aware of the time, so agreed to allow 40 minutes to walk from chosen eatery to the station (it was something which could be done in 15 but we were not. about. taking. chances. This way of thinking had led us down the wrong pasta-laden path in the first place.
However when the plethora of cheeses arrived (and oh my, was it something to behold), it was hard not to unwind a little, and back in the bubble we were.
“Oh my GOD LOOK AT ALL OF THEEEEESE”
Dobby exclaimed as the waiter walked away, twiddling her little fingers with glee. She went to pinch a piece of the closest cheddar before I moved to stop her.
“HOLD UP.”
Her hand hovered over the plate as her face turned to one of confusion. I raised my glass (which I admit, I had got a bit excited about and poured in well over what was necessary):
“Here’s to trying to make it on time, failing…and wine”
“Cheers to that Badger!”
**enthusiastic clink and slight spillage onto cheese platter**
I also forgot to mention the variety of chutneys (Yes, chutneys) that had accompanied our cheesy platter. (Please see below and also bear in mind there was more cheese but we ate it; priorities)
“I know it sounds bad…”
“You’re glad we missed it too, huh?”
“YES!” exclaimed Dobby.
We roared with laughter and swayed a little in our chairs.
“What a wonderful way to end our Erasmus”
“Not over yet” I paused. “We still have to get back home.”
HAHAHAHAHA *chortle* *snort* *nervous chuckle*
But in all seriousness (jokes and being temporarily stuck aside) this was to be considered another story we were more than happy to add to our list of adventures enjoyed over the past year.
End of an era
Erasmus was almost over and the sense of impending doom aka final year and dissertations was becoming increasingly real. The days of walking out the front door with nothing but that feeling of sheer freedom and uncertainty over what was going to happen; of being the stranger in a foreign land; of making little (mostly culinary) discoveries everyday, was soon to be over. Complete spontaneity and religiously checking Ryanair for (absolutely ridiculous) offers was soon to be replaced for a year of being grounded, responsibility, and of conforming to the people we were before the program began.
But here lied the problem – we were no longer these people; nor did we want to be.
Being the clueless foreigner had its disadvantages, yes, and I am more aware than anyone of how very much I just loved to moan about it. Truth was, I didn’t want to go back to the norm, to reality and to a planned out schedule I was already so familiar with. No part of me held that desire. I didn’t want to go back at all.
My friends and I were aware of our predicament, and before we could learn to come to terms with what was happening and to accept it, we had to go through the phase of denial. Technically Erasmus was still a thing until we touched down on British soil. So here we were, not in the UK, but in Venice, Dobby and myself making the very most of our final days of freedom. And we made it count.
Step 1 in overcoming the Erasmus blues is going on holiday again and again and again #Erasmus2013
Prince Charming and the Boozy Bread
Dobby took another sip (gulp) and I glanced at the partially demolished Camembert. We’d been knocking back the vino (as per) and most of all, reminiscing about the times we’d shared together; our ups and downs, the impressive characters we’d met along the way and the places we were already itching to go back to.
The waiter hollered over to our table as we sat in a state of profound recollection, the kind that leaves your eyes glazing over a little.
Before Dobby could ask, he placed upon the table a newly filled basket of bread.
“So where are you from?”
He turned out to be a chatty chappy and was seemingly intrigued by our love of laughter, complementary table bread and sharing of cheese platters.
Yes, that’s how fast I grabbed the table bread’n’cheese
As I answered him in my Pidgin Prosecco-fueled Italian, he proceeded to ask more questions, increasingly curious of our story. our friendship, and it appears, our plans for the rest of the evening.
Dobby made a cheeky smirk as the waiter asked what we were doing after dinner. Unfortunately for him, we did not have plans to accompany him to the disco, and we politely declined, explaining that being the modern Cinderellas we were, we had a train to catch, and incidentally it would be leaving at midnight.
“Oh that is such a shame, why don’t you stay longer in Venice?”
We laughed and rolled our eyes jokingly, shrugging it off and giving him the “What can you do, ay?” look, before he walked away, leaving us to share a giggle or two and finish off the wine.
He did have a point though, it would be a shame to leave.
*heavy sigh*
“I don’t want this to ever end.”
Our unplanned night and unexpected extension of our stay in Venice had somehow become representative of our entire Year Abroad experience. And it was ending, all too soon.
The caraff was down to its last drop and it was getting time to make our way back (at tortoise pace).
“Grazie mille” we slurred as we paid for our singular plate and litre of strong wine.
Pretty sure we were the last out and the restaurant closed soon after, but the staff seemed very happy to be entertained by two English girls, very broken Italian, and loud (unconsciously so) laughter. That, or they were happy to see us go. Probably the latter, on reflection.
Not forgetting our groceries (snacks, just snacks), we marched onwards to the train station, with purpose, somehow with this mindset believing it would get us there quicker.
“We’re going to make it, don’t worry”
“Yup, we just need to stick to the plan”
Asking for a bread (not wine) refill
The Return Journey 2.0
We arrived at Santa Lucia well within time (shock) but even so, that failed to put our nerves at ease. As soon as the announcement was made and the train had pulled into the platform, we were on it, despite the fact it wasn’t due to leave for a good while.
It was one of those ‘Hogwarts Express’ type trains – you know the ones- and so we settled into our assigned carriage, cozy, and more importantly, on our way. Funnily enough, we found ourselves sharing the carriage with a delightful American couple (with Italian roots of course), who were in the middle of their tour of the country, as it were.
“Oh it’s so beautiful there, you have to go – we’re on our way to Naples – I got family there”
“Yes, we love it, the food as well…”
The conversation went onto our reason for being there, and recounting our Erasmus tales. Seeing stranger’s reactions, I came to the realisation that our year was not over *cheese* because we’d always have these memories.
I don’t believe in living in the past, but writing about our experiences does make me relive them, and for me it’s a reminder that more memories are to be made, that these places which served as a backdrop for our stories, are waiting for us to visit again.
Ferrara: the point of no return
The train pulled into Ferrara and both of us, being slightly anxious, rule-abiding Brits at heart (this is not to say boring), decided it best to leave the carriage at this point, and dawdle about in the passageway before the train arrived at Bologna. This was a good plan, until we opened the door to find a lot of other people doing the same thing (they probably had valid tickets though). Despite it being super late (or arguably early) the passage was rather rammed. Incidentally this worked out for the best. No ticket inspector in sight (as if they could be bothered at this time and in these conditions anyway), so no need to hide in a teeny tiny toilet for half an hour. Yay! At this stage of the day, it was about celebrating all wins, big and small.
Walking out of Bologna station was a relief. We were nearly there, just 3 hours to go… Bologna is a city that in my time as a student in Modena, I had visited on occasions, and very much enjoyed; but I think it’s fair to say that the station, especially at night, was ugly, dangerous, and to be avoided if possible. Not wanting to add trouble to our already lengthy adventure, we made tracks for Piazza Verdi, a square known for its student frequenters, and at this time of night, I was counting on stragglers and late party-goers to be populating the area.
They weren’t. Well, not as many as I would have liked anyway.
The square felt kind of empty and the exact opposite of ‘buzzing’ without the crowds of young people and cheap beer about. Not that we were exactly in the mood to party…
Bologna
“Dorito?”
“YASSS OMG DO WE HAVE DIP”
“Can wine give you the munchies?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so?” **rips open packet of something sugar-based and chocolate smothered**
What. A. Day.
We were over the whole ‘adventure’ thing.
As funny as our circumstance was, the lingering strangers and empty plastic cups left in the square had started to give us a sense of uneasiness; we craved the feeling of being under a duvet and within four walls, with a fridge at our disposal and without the dependency on a train timetable.
We continued to eat as we exited the square – on the move we felt a bit safer, and the bars that were open at least meant other people were out and about. It wasn’t bad actually, there were even a few pizza places open – ah Italy how I miss you so!
Walking towards the station, we decided to rest at a bus stop, as it was close, but not too close, if you catch my drift. We just had to wait it out.
The train to Modena was where I found my inner peace. That peace you get from drinking a tea after a long day at the office, or when you hand in an essay you’ve been working on all night, or when you take off your heels after an intense dance-off. You know what I mean?
Back to the cave
Walking from the station to my house was bizarre. It was morning. Not ‘ooh look the dawn is rising’ morning, but actual MORNING time. Birds singing, bakers baking, and weary travellers finding there way home. How did it happen?
Who cares.
We bought two pastries (now was as good a time as any to scoff them down) and on arriving at my humble abode, closed the bedroom shutters completely; total darkness, how welcome you were.
Dobby collapsed onto the already deflating air mattress.
“Don’t wake me up until it’s dark again; I could sleep forever”
“Yeh me too, I can’t even grasp what yesterday was… ”
*Dobby turns to sleep*
“…Dya fancy a cuppa?”
“Ooh yeah go on then!”
And so it ended as it began, two erratic and unstable minds, bonding over tea.
Oh God. I know what you’re thinking. Is she done telling this bloody story yet?
This is the third and final installment, I promise. Dobby has been reading through my drafts alongside me, and reminiscing about our little adventure:
“Sam, you know what, I think this might have to be a three part-er”
And I didn’t believe her.
Pour It Up
Okay so whizz back to part 2. Vinevia all’Amarone. Cute table outside. Even cuter Prosecco bottle sitting comfortably in its snug little ice bucket.
Finding San Marco Square and getting to Venice in the first place had tired us out a little, and what we really needed (craved) at this point was food, and lots of it.
We browsed through the menu and I found myself in that horrible dilemma most of us have had the privilege of experiencing.
“Oh my god there is just so much CHOICE”
“Wait, what does that mean? Oh it’s ………… – I love them!”
“Okay that will be a potential main”
“Or maybe I should try something typically Venetian. But they do have this dish and it’s basically my ‘go-to’…”
“Oh god the waitress will be back out in a minute – MAKE A DECISION – QUICK!”
“Maybe we can do half/half to try two different dishes?”
“God Dobby WHY ARE YOU VEGETARIAN?!”
“…Ooh bruschetta!”
“Omg focus – don’t waste time on sides!”
*gasps dramatically and clutches chest* “SIDES ARE NEVER A WASTE OF TIME”
Anyone else had that problem? Just me maybe…
What were seven or so of the most stressful minutes of my life passed by and we had somehow come to a decision.
“What goes well with Prosecco?”
“Darling, everything – you can’t base your decision on that alone”
So I think we went with our guts – which at this point were crying out for carbs, a creamy sauce and generally a large portion of substational and tasty grub.
Dobby ordered a lovely veggie dish (I know it was some kind of pasta) and I predictably went for my ‘go-to’, spaghetti marinara. I just love seafood and garlic and could eat a potful if you let me (unfortunately that wasn’t an option).
We also went for a starter of the ‘bread & bits’ variety. Very tasty and scoffed down within about 5 seconds of being delicately placed on the table in front of us (and our beady little eyes).
While we waited for our mains, we contemplated the next stop on our grand tour.
“OK, where to next?”
The wine had us relaxed and in a state of tranquility – the food enhancing this chilled mood even further.
“I’m easy – let’s just stroll and see what’s good”
“Let’s have a mooch, yeh”
Our dishes arrived and this is how I would define happiness –
The waitress walks out and the food heads directly for your table. Large white plates are served and the portion is not petite or ‘bite-size’, ‘delicate’ nor ‘Instagram-cute’ (what is this trend all about anyway – it’s just serving up a plate of disappointment and shattered appetite-based dreams people!)
Nay, the portions are deceivingly large, and the food looks beyond appetising; yet somehow still manages to exceed your expectations.
So at this point you’re salivating – it gets better. “WHAT?!” I hear you cry.
Cheese, my friend.
That freshly grated smell-it-from-across-the-room Parmesan cheese.
The waitress moves to serve the Parmigiano-Reggiano, waiting for you to gesture “stop”.
You don’t . The cheese never ends, there is cheese times infinity, the whole world becomes covered in cheese, and that for me is happiness.
In this case, I must admit, I committed the sin of all sins on Italian ground – ok not as bad as when I ordered a Hawaiian pizza, but getting there/coming in a close second. (Amici miei, look away now per favore)
Seafood and cheese. I found out a couple years later (or too late apparently) that this was a HUGE no-no.
The Italians couldn’t even understand why I would choose to DISRESPECT the marinara like that. I wonder what they would make of fisherman’s pie…?
Anyway, on that day I was happy as Larry pouring (most appropriate verb) Parmesan on and around my dish, and washing it down with chilled wine. And it was just everything.
As the dishes were taken away, we sat back in our peaceful slump, feeling entirely content with the world, our lunch and the rest of the time we had in Venice. I can’t remember if there was dessert, but I have a feeling we didn’t want to over-indulge (hold-in your laughter please), and so we made a move from the restaurant, at a pretty slow pace.
“That was…”
“Oh I know”
To be honest, lunch had made it for us, and we were both quite content in taking the rest of the day in our stride.
As I mentioned earlier, there is so much to see in Venice, it all becomes a little distracting. Being in a post-pasta bubble had turned us into a couple of ambling old ladies, wandering arm in arm and stopping to window-shop (or rather, glare) at the various boutiques lining the streets. After trying on a few masks, laughing hysterically and being frowned out of a shop (or two) we walked along the “Gran Canale” and took a few snaps on the famous Rialto bridge.
The Unfortunate Turn of Events
We were so fulfilled with our fabulous day out (pasta- and vino does wonders) that we *classic* lost track of all time. Here is where things got messy.
Turns out going for a stroll is okay as long as you have your logistics in check. We did not.
“Oh my god that is not the time”
*Bad word* “Dobby I don’t know if we’ll make it”
I love this girl and I don’t know many people who possess the same level of optimism.
“Okay…” *looks at map* “No you know what- I think we can make it. Let’s try”
Our past experiences (solo adventures and together) of ‘just’ making it on time for – you name it – parties, exams, flights (it’s not great I know) combined with our knowledge (comfort) in that the other is exactly the same way, had egged us on in previous situations, and this one was no different.
Imagine two girls, post-boozy lunch, running (and panting) through the streets of Venice, bags bashing against innocent bystanders, holding the look of 50% calm, 50% “Ooh not quite sure this running lark is all that worth it” on our faces.
Well that was the scenario.
Wine face
We got to what I remember to be the other side of Ponte della Constituzione, and Dobby laid down the card of sensibility – “I can’t, I’m sorry…I think it might wait – they never really come on time right?”
I threw in the towel too. Checking the clock, the train was already due and therefore had probably left 5 minutes before (they like to mess around like that sometimes – switching up platforms, going from delayed to cancelled: basically keeping commuters and baffled tourists on their toes).
I knew the train had left but we thought we’d check anyway – optimism. Entering the station we looked up at the board and our doubts were confirmed.
“Ok never mind, we’ll just wait for the next one out.”
That would have been a logical idea except in this case the next few trains departing were of the Frecciarossa variety, aka something which our student budget (particularly at this point in the semester – IT WAS OVER – OVER) would not stretch to. Simply put, it was decidedly not the Megabus of Northern Italy.
“*Another bad word* What are we going to do?”
By this time we had extended our timetable research online and I managed to find out that there was a cheaper train heading towards Bologna, just later on… MUCH later on.
And that would still leave us an hour away from home.
Suddenly the image of my chaotic cave of a room felt so distant and beyond reach. We looked at each other for a moment. “Done it again, haven’t we” but also “LOL I wonder how this’ll pan out” crossed both of our minds.
Then my battery died.
We didn’t make it.
We stayed in Venice; we’re still here right now.
We’re stuck forever; that’s us in the photo featured. Cazza’s finishing off her glass, and I’m pondering over what cheese selection would go best with the next bottle.
Just pulling ya leg.
As it turns out, Dobby didn’t have data and had about 5% more battery than myself. That’s 5 %.
Things got old school pretty quick.
“We need to get off the island”
Make the call
Our only hope right now was our sweet Casalooch. I had messaged Joshua earlier informing him of our pickle and he couldn’t, yet at the same time could, believe our predicament.
*Third bad word* “Oh we need to call Josh, quick, I’ll write his number down before your battery dies.”
Dobby got up the number while I rummaged in search of pen and paper. What I found as substitutes were a worn-away eyeliner pencil and ironically, my unused train ticket. Doing all of this in blind panic on the steps outside Santa Lucia station felt other-worldly. As I used Dobby’s back as a support for my frantic scribbling, I couldn’t help but laugh at how desperate we must have looked/actually were, especially when fumbling for coins for the payphone. PAY. PHONE.
Needless to say, it felt very 90s.
So there we were, chucking all the cents we had into this payphone, and dialing carefully (oh so carefully), waiting on Casalooch to answer, who had actually just got out of the shower at this point, and was chilling at home in Forli, or at least he was before becoming our human switch-board.
*Deep breath* JOSH I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS WE’RE TRAPPED IN VENICE LOL TRAPPED HAHAHAHA THIS IS SO US OH MY GOD WHY AM I RAMBLING DOBBY I CAN’T BREATHE CHUCK IN ANOTHER 5 CENTS—” beep
“Oh Sam. How have you done that?! I’m eating left over lasagna. Did it go off without you? LOL BYE. Oh deaar. Wait what are you calling me on now? Are you using CASH. Hello are you calling from the 90s? Darling what’s happened ok nevermind I’ve got the timetable up write this down. Is Dobby there? ELLO U CHEEKY TROLL”
The gang together in less desperate times … **coming SOON** Fuerteventura post!
Being our savior for the day, he practically planned and coordinated our safe trip back home: Sat in a towel, in his bedroom, some 100 miles away, googling every possible way for us to get “back from the islands”, Casalooch came up with the following itinerary:
“Okay so here’s what you girls need to do.”
*Dobby and I stand with one ear to the phone each, silently nodding and eager for instruction/direction/guidance/a miracle in our time of need*
“Train from Santa Lucia Venice to Ferrara departs at midnight – this means you need to get off at Bologna”
“But it’s for Ferrara…”
“This is the thing – you’ll have to buy a ticket for Ferrara and get off one stop later, Bologna. It’s the best way for you to get home without waiting until morning for one HAHA – sorry – but, no darling, we’ll get you home. Get off at Bologna.”
We bought the tickets straightaway. I can’t express how grateful we were for my best friend’s ability to organise and resolve under pressure. It was the best situation given our unforeseen circumstance, although there were a couple of things we were wary of:
Technically the first ticket was for Ferrara…so for one stop , we would have to avoid any ticket inspectors (if there even were any).
“Hide in the toilet”
“WHAT both of us?”
“Or play tourist! Technically you are…?”
2. The crossover at Bologna would mean a wait of 3 hours more or less, in the early morning, which was not really an ideal time to be in the city. However, from the few times I had been on a night out with the españoles in Bologna, I was aware of Piazza Verdi, a square popular with the young folk for pre-drinking, before moving onto the clerbz. This came to mind as I remembered Dad’s sound advice.
“There’s safety in numbers”
There were sure to be students around at this time.
“Let’s just enjoy Venice!” Dobby could see I was still getting over our little hiccup.
As we went through our action plan again with Josh, she breathed a sigh of relief – she was right, what was important now was enjoying the time we had left.
“What a blessing, we can see Venice at night!”
It did seem like we’d been given a few more hours to explore, and this was not to go unappreciated.
Sleep deprived. Ecstatic from sugar highs and the promise of what was to be a very very super-dooper fun day out. Deranged because of all the catching up (breath and story-telling) and also deranged anyway because that was kind of how we rolled. You’ll see what I mean as I go on to share the rest of my tale…
So beginning from the end of part 1. We had made it to Venice; lots of people on steps, lots of people on boats, basically lots of people everywhere. For anyone who hasn’t visited this city before, I would recommend getting yourself a map (vital step one) and highlighting the places you’d like to visit first – from what I can remember we nabbed ourselves one (for FREE!!) inside the train station, which was tourist friendly and already had circled where we wanted (or rather were obliged) to go.
Step 2 would probably be to now head away from the train station, and the boat stop – and to just keep walking (and weaving) until you find yourself in a street where you don’t feel your private space being invaded. Then make your way towards the circle on your map.
I may have exaggerated a little. I think the crankiness and my erratic state of mind that morning might have made me visualise more packs of people than there were. That’s right, I said it. PACKS.
One way to beat the crowds I suppose
Point being, if you’re like me, and don’t fend too well with crowds (particularly those armed with giant over-the-top/used-once digital cameras and canary yellow audio guides) I would recommend just barging through with brute force Rambo-style sucking it up and winding your way through, until you find yourself in a peaceful corner, or side street, where you’re able to get your map out (not just folds). There you can take your leisurely time and start plodding to your first destination. That’s what we did, and I’m all the more grateful for it. Too much of today’s hustle and bustle makes for boring people and tedious stories. If you charge about going from one spot to the next with headphones on and with only ‘the main attractions’ (or rather, that perfect Instagram setting) in your sights, how are you ever going to appreciate the place itself? One thing I love love LOVE to do when I travel is **cliché** take everything in: the sights, the smells, the feel for the city. No place is the ever the same as another. And you can’t take in all it has to offer if you refuse to just stop, look up and around or just slow the pace a little to catch a moment.
So in this case, here we find ourselves, myself and dear companion Dobby, stood in our gourmless travel-weary stance, worn-in Vans ready for action and heading to the first stop, San Marco Square.
Our first stop.
Smells: Baked goodness – I don’t care what it is: pizza, calzone, panini, everyday buns or the Venitian version of a humble cheese & onion slice – whatever it is, it smells amazing and it’s giving me life.
Sights: Something I loved about Italy in general, and what I wish London had a bit more of, is the old-time architecture. The faded walls which still remain pretty, postcard-worthy and charming in their appearance, and paved streets of historic stone, which unlike those in my ends, were not gritty (nor gum-filled). These little details just made it all the more enamoring a place, which was at that moment, filled with locals and tourists, munching on afternoon delights (aforementioned baked goods; and NOT the kind you’d find in Greggs either).
The plan was to see as much of Venice as we could in a day, (and of course fit in a big meal + bottle of wine in this time). Our train back to Bologna was due to leave at around 6pm from what I remember – this gave us just over 6 hours to explore. A good amount of time to see all the main attractions without rushing. I am picturing (with disdain) how some express day-trips can turn out: on-the-go sarnies and the Countdown theme in the background as you whiz desperately around the city.
The first time I came to Venice (post coming soon!), I was fortunate enough to arrive on the day of Carnivale. The city on this particular day was, without exaggerating, JAM PACKED and actually because of the sheer crowd density, we weren’t able to reach San Marco square, where the main event was taking place. A shame, but that’s what you get for arriving partied out/still jet-lagged, and in any case, I’m sure I will make the effort to see it in the future.
There is a point to my rambling. It was at this moment, as we were being swept through the crowds, that I took into consideration how tiny Venetian streets become. It’s like a labyrinth of charming windy streets, which gives reason as to why it’s often referred to as the tourist maze. However, in and around corners of said maze, you will find yourself at the entrance of a quaint open piazza, or a small bridge passing over a canal. And that’s one of the other things I love about Venice.
On this day in particular Dobby and I had achieved what I could not on Carnival day: we made it to our circle on the map. Making our way down the teeny tiny (yet oh so perfect and picturesque) streets and also making a few stops across big and small bridges (a couple of shameless selfies en-route), there we were.
Piazza di San Marco. Quite impressive. Understatement much.
“Oooh”
“I know”
“Well that’s just lovely isn’t it?”
“Let’s take a picture”
“Yes, let’s”
I know it sounds stupid, but I never really thought of Venice as an island, which it more or less is. As the train pulls into Santa Lucia, it’s basically a track from mainland to port. The city is practically surrounded by water, and this makes for remarkable views.
The basilica of San Marco stands proudly by the vast square, which gives off a kind of pristine air about the place: everything is white and the constrast of the blue water behind it provides a dramatic backdrop for the whole scene.
“It would be a delightful place to take lunch”
“Shall we?”
*Attempts cheeky and suggestive face which turns out to be more leary and terrifying*
Instead of ignoring my ghastly expression, Dobby embraces my enthusiasm for spontaneity and love of lunch (and all mealtimes, really), and in return throws me a funny face herself *N.B. this means lunch is ooOORN.
We amble towards some fancy-looking tables (red tablecloths and more than one set of cutlery laid out, you get me) which belonged to one of the restaurant terraces gracing the square.
BEFORE YOU SAY IT – I don’t know what we were thinking (and this was pre-bubbly wine). Rule No. 1 in tourist code: Restaurants located in the town square = approx 10x more £££ than others elsewhere in the city. This is just common sense, and it soon became apparent to the both of us, after perusing the leather-bound menu (Rule 1. section A in tourist code – avoid restaurants with flags on their menus; this usually means you’ll be handing over a few bob extra). Anything with an English translation I usually try to steer clear of – you’re there to enjoy the local food, be brave and ask for the special!
“So if I ordered calamari as a starter, how much would that make each squid? ”
“At least we’ve already paid for our return ticket LOL”
Okay let’s not do this.
Square selfie – smiling because we know next stop is lunch
We took it upon ourselves to do a little more exploring. Not for other places of interest though; more places of eatery. Food had been mentioned and our (rumbly) stomachs had heard us. We were on the look-out.
I couldn’t for the life of me remember the name of the restaurant we ended up in – actually it was a wine bar – how perfect?! But after doing a bit of research (20 mins studying Google Maps and reliving the walk in a ravenous haze) I found it – Vinevia all’Amarone. It was located down a small side street (Calle Sbanchesini) and away from all the madness, and extortionate prices…
As luck would have it (it’s still early on in the story) there was an offer on that we found hard to refuse (it involved a bottle of house prosecco in an ice bucket and I forget the rest. Basically sold itself.
“Well this is all rather fancy!”
Dobby exclaimed with glee. I looked around our dainty wooden table and the captivating setting which surrounded us.
“To being ladies that lunch wine”
*Both clink glasses enthusiastically and sip/gulp a lot of bubbly*
“I. Am. About. This life. Show me the menu and keep the vino flowing”
And that’s how we got to the third and final part of my story…
It might say Tranquillo on the bottle but that’s not how things went down…
It was coming up to the end of our Erasmus year, and what had been one of the most incredible experiences I’d had to date. I had been living in Italy for around 5 months at that point, and there was a fortnight left for me to savour all things Italian – culture, language, the good expresso morning routine, and of course, (mainly) FOOD. You’ve no idea how much I miss the food. I don’t know how Italians manage it when they stay abroad. Suddenly it all makes sense when they turn their noses up at anything supposedly ‘authentically Italian’ produced outside of their country. (Although I must say that hasn’t changed my love for Pizza Express garlic doughballs, sorrynotsorry). But being honest, there’s just no comparing it, food is not just food (a principle I’ve always stood by) and pasta is not just limited to spaghetti, macaroni, farfalle (bow-tie) and fuselli (the swirly one). I remember walking into a supermarket and finding myself completely baffled at the sight of 4 aisles (I don’t even think I’m exaggerating) dedicated solely to pasta. It’s kind of a big deal. As is all food in Italy really. They just put everything into it, and everything is about food and food is everything and oh my god I loved it so much! So much so that I’ve set my mind to writing a various posts about it. But I digress..
Yes I’m holding gelato; no I’m not thinking of final year.
So. It’s late July, exams were well and truly over (can I get an Amen?…and a Spritz maybe?) and I was nowhere near ready to face the fact that Sangria nights and Calzone Fridays were soon to be replaced by 2-for-1 dinners at the local Spoons and Wet Winter Evenings by the TV (and also laptop, because, you know, ‘studying’). It was too much to bear. My dear Dobby, or ‘Carys’ as the world knows her, was also suffering from the same reluctance to leave the Erasmus bubble, however, was on the lookout for a bit of a change of scenery. So seeing this as an opportunity, we arranged for her to spend the last bit of her Erasmus with us in Italy, it would be perfect; the gang back together again. We would go to the beach, do a little sightseeing, find a new kebaby, eat breakfast pizza and GO TO THE BUFFET, you know, all the important stuff.
And that’s what we did. It was a wonderful 2 weeks, and aside from seeing Modena in a new light, and visiting the neighbouring sites, it was so much fun just to be back together again and reminiscing about the time we’d spent as a dynamic (more like disastrous) duo causing havoc in Granada, and what both of us had been up to in the second semester.
It’s also somewhat comforting to hear someone else’s experience of a similar situation. Obviously we had been in different places, and had done different things, but the case remained the same; there was a sense of mixed feeling. Erasmus had brought us so much in terms of experience, awareness, friendships, and many a tale to tell, nevertheless, it made looking at the same place in a different light near impossible. Granada for us would always be the place we loved before term started; the place we hated during those depressing November blues; the place we struggled to find ourselves in at first and of course the place we never wanted to let go of when the time came to part ways.
Mojitos, Bad Moves and Mischief
I went back to Granada a year or so after leaving, and the vibe was not as before, it’s true – me not being a student anymore had changed my perspective a little. Yet the yearning desire to stay and just be in the city was something I still felt very deeply. It brought up many fond memories, being there, and the less joyous ones had not by any means tainted my love for la vida andaluza, which we wanted to hold onto for a little while longer. In fact leaving there again provoked that sensation of FOMO, would you believe (I just can’t leave Granada alone!)?
ANYWAY. Rewind to my story. So we’re in Italy, Erasmus is about to end, we are both very much in denial about having to go back to reality and well, most of all dreading our final year of university and also British weather because ew gross/why/when will I ever see the sun again?
“I’ve never been to Venice before.”
Suitcases are half empty (or half full, depending on your perception of life); Carys and I much like others in our situation have a case (or two! **laughs at own pun**) of not knowing whether we’re coming or going **laughs at unintended rhyme**. Odd socks and bras and Primark leggings are strewn across the tiled floor, a pot of Nutella and a bare packet of mini toasted bread (ALL the rage in the Med) sits amongst all our lovely mess, next to a slightly deflated air mattress. Windows are wide open and the voices of Italians getting on with their day can be heard from the street one floor below.
”Let’s go then; let’s go early tomorrow and spend the whole day there. It will be great, we’ll have a tourist day out and we can take pictures and eat food and take more pictures and eat even more food – you see where I’m going with this..?”
May’15, when the lovely Christoff came to visit – another adventure to be blogged!
Aside from our days spent in the sun, (WHY AM I STILL PASTY IT’S BEEN A YEAR) we had a few moments where we just reverted back to our cave-like ways. And I loved it. Still in pijamas at 3pm, and listening to people’s conversations below, we drank our teas and planned for what would be a great day ahead.
I can’t remember exactly what time we got up, but I remember it being early; as in the thought crosses your mind when the alarm goes off: ‘Maybe we can just not go’. But we decided that as Uni + Dissertation + grey clouds + bad tv was soon on the cards, it was best to make the most of our final days as foreign exchange students. So we ambled quickly to the train station. That’s an outright lie; I’m pretty sure we ended up running (pastry in hand) and I’m almost certain I didn’t catch my breath until the next stop. But point being, we made it; we were on our way.
Pretend we’ve had a really good night’s sleep and aren’t craving booze right now
One transfer and a few hours later, we found ourselves stumbling out of Venezia-Santa Lucia train station. People were basking in the mid-morning sun conveniently (not so much) sat on the steps outside, staring at the bustling mobs below, tourists and locals alike, just EVERYWHERE. The place was moving, individuals weaving in and out of crowds, nearby restaurants at full capacity, tour boats making their way across the river, the view across from which was impressive in itself. As is what happens sometimes when one first arrives at a tourist attraction, after a bit of a journey and even less sleep, everything seems all a bit much. We both stood for a moment trying to take it all in.
”Where do we start”
Excited to see the city (I had been a couple times before but Venice had a way of bringing the excited explorer out in you), we braved the crowds and got out our recently acquired map. And selfie stick. And dictionary.
Look if you’re going to play tourist, you may as well go all out.
Moving in with people you’ve never met is a bit risky to say the least. Finding individuals who will put up with your messy kitchen routine, shower ballads and constant burping can be difficult, but I considered myself lucky last year with all the flatmates I had, who didn’t seemed to mind too much when I blared out ‘Bootylicious’ full blast or made the whole flat stink of curry.
Leaving Granada was the best thing to happen to my Spanish. Don’t get me wrong, I had improved since arriving six months prior, and so had my confidence, but University life there was, in all honesty, just not happening for me. To put it bluntly I learnt more Spanish over coffee with friends than I did inside the classroom. “You’re not really one for studying are you? It seems like networking’s more your thing.” Networking. I’ll go with that Dad.
Before leaving Spain I had tried to find accommodation ASAP, and after the Casa de Big Problemas fiasco I was extremely reluctant to be put through another housing nightmare; also I had a grand total of five days in England before flying to Italy, and didn’t want to wind up sleeping on a park bench. Thankfully, through Erasmus FaceBook groups I was contacted by two Spanish friends, who lived to fiesta, knew how to cook tortilla, and were in need of a flatmate. SOLD!
Wuapas
I was excited to move but at the same time dreaded it. Spain was much more than I ever expected, and I just didn’t know if Italy was going to live up to it. Leaving Granada felt like I was leaving the best party early, while all my friends stayed on to drink more sangria and speak better Spanish.
“Damn it my Italian is so poor. I should’ve pie-d it off altogether”
“Well with 6 credits from first semester I’ve definitely failed the year, BRILLIANT”
“Oh God what if they don’t turn up to the bus station and I’m left all alone with 2 heavy suitcases and nowhere to go?!”
“What if they hate me because I can’t speak Spanish?”
“WHY AM I DOING THIS?!”
These were just some thoughts that meant I didn’t sleep well the night before my flight to Bologna (in fact, I passed out so hard on the plane, that I only woke up when the wheels hit the tarmac on the other side). Waiting for Cristina and Alicia at Modena Bus Station was a nervous experience, but when we found each other I decided not to let my anxiety and doubts get the better of me; after all, making a tit out of oneself in adequate Spanish is probably better than remaining mute to the people you’ll be living with.
After being shown our lovely flat, a renovated bunker-style apartment, with tiled floors and wooden beams, I was introduced to the city (in my eyes, a town, but I’m not going to argue with the Italians). We stopped for a coffee since it was raining outside (typical Brit bringing the weather with me, soz) and whilst having a chat with them I realised the stress I felt before was unnecessary and pathetic.
Cris is a gregarious Andalusian girl, who loves tomatoes, drinking cerve’itas and of course, worships el sol. She loves the fact I stayed in the south of Spain, scolds me for not having visited her beautiful home-town of Seville, and is one of the main reasons why I’ve subconsciously taken to speaking in an Andaluz accent.
Ali is a hilarious Galician girl, who loves The Simpsons, loves seafood even more, and absolutely detests coconuts. She never ceases to amaze me with ridiculously accurate impressions, is constantly listening to English songs I just have not heard of, and is my partner in crime when it comes to procrastination (aka ‘coffee (beer) break?’).
cerve’itas
fiesteras
tonterías
locas
Too often the fear of being misunderstood or unintentionally causing insult/offence to the other person prevents us from communicating with those who do not share our mother tongue. They are foreigners, not aliens, and can still appreciate when someone not of their native language tries to communicate, even if it’s poorly done. Living with these girls, I couldn’t afford to be shy, introvert and unwilling to speak a language other than my own. And thank God I wasn’t. Being with my flatmates played a huge part of my Erasmus experience in Italy – I couldn’t have wished for better friends to share it with. And thank goodness they didn’t mind when I made mistakes; my botched translation of The Lord of The Rings as ‘Señoras del Ano’ made for a constant source of flat banter.
For those of you with little or no Spanish, I essentially admitted to being a fan of movie series “Women of the bumhole”.
I retreated home for Christmas last year, welcomed by Lidl’s weekly stock of mince pies – I went from being homesick to almost physically sick; I tried explaining to Mum that they also eat food in Spain, but that didn’t seem to deter her from fattening me up like the honorary Christmas Turkey. Despite not being back in a while, my break at home was short and sweet, much to the family’s dismay (everyone enjoys my ability to clear the entire fridge contents, as well as my inability to not knock over everything in sight).
Christmas Tree Troll
Feliz Navidad – Granada, Spain
Dad had suggested I stay longer than the ten days planned, to get over being the Brit misfit, but I’d reached the point of no return. I need to do this, or I’ll always be stuck. Also it was my year abroad. There was no way I was going to not take advantage of that for New Year’s Eve. So ten days later and six kilos heavier, I boarded that plane, Málaga-bound, with a box of (by then, crumbled) mince pies – apparently I hadn’t been put off completely – and a new attitude.
My dad’s sound advice: “If you’re going back, stop stressing. They can’t tell you off for trying can they? Don’t let it ruin your last month there. Enjoy yourself.” And my ever-growing appreciation for the andaluz way of life impelled a change in my mentality.
“I have about six weeks left here, I want to be fluent, I want to eat tapas and I don’t want to care when people don’t understand me. I want to see things I haven’t seen before, I want to see Spanish things and I want to do Spanish things.”
So I started saying yes, or ‘sí’ to more things.
OLÉ – Salobreña, Spain
From the moment I disembarked the plane in Málaga I withheld the urge to revert back to my enemy, the comfort zone, and proceeded to the ALSA ticket office outside, making an enquiry in Spanish about times of buses to Granada. I don’t know if she noticed my accent was off or not, I didn’t notice myself, because after all, who cares? I asked a question and got my answer. Silly little things like that. Why did that ever bother me?
The sad thing is, it used to scare me.
Getting back to Casa de Monos was a bit like returning to Uni halls before everyone had gotten back from holidays; a few of us in the building had decided to stay over the New Year period, so a big NYE dinner was organised by lovely Flat 5 Izquierda, which involved lots of pasta, champers, wine, not enough chairs, and a long table of drunk foreigners, myself included.
After the lovely meal I went to get changed; my friend Chris was dapper in a suit and bowtie, so obviously I felt a sparkly gold sequinned dress and new high heels was appropriate/not OTT at all/well if you can’t go all out for NYE when CAN you?!
Feliz Año Nuevo
4 Izquierda Homegirl <3
I met everyone at the flat before leaving, and we all tottered out (okay just myself and a few of the girls), making our way towards Plaza del Carmen, outside the town hall. Which, by the way, was RAMMO. I can’t express how packed it was. And weirdly we seemed to be the only non-Spanish group. As part of tradition, some of us had brought 12 grapes along, the Spanish custom being to eat a grape for each chime of the bell during the countdown to midnight. I did not remember this unfortunately, although I did remember the champers. Fortunately.
There were masses of crowds, live music, and a lot of loud conversations. To this day I maintain that whoever was in charge had missed the countdown, because as far as I was aware, there was a fuzzy mumble over speakers in the square, and then everyone began simultaneously screaming and hugging each other. There were also fireworks amidst this madness. Some friends were chucking grapes down their throats, or at each other, while the rest struggled to get all their plastic glasses under the same bottle of trickling champagne (that would be myself included, again). Everyone was having a raucous old time, Jacob even managed to catch the flying cork of a champagne bottle which had popped somewhere in the crowd; I still can’t believe it, and I still keep hold of it for luck!
Plaza del Carmen, minus crowds, fireworks and chaos
As crowds began to disperse (WHERE’S THE FIESTA AT?), we got our group together and walked along the Paseo de los Tristes, stopping by the car park near the bridge for a mini ‘botellón’, Spanish for pre-drink, only they don’t do it to binge, shocker! After copious amounts of tinto were washed down, we headed upwards (with the hills of the Albaicín it is an almost vertical journey) to Camborio, not before stopping at the bridge for a moment to find out group straggler’s whereabouts (F.Y.I this is you, Carys). I remember having a lovely time, receiving a free glass of (more) champagne, a new year hat, or some kind of souvenir, and dancing till my shoes left my feet (literally they were so sore I am never wearing heels out the same day I buy them again. Ever.) I also cringely remember completely losing my footing on the way out, and tumbling in spectacular fashion, contents of bag spilling across the cobble-stoned street. I got up with what dignity I had left (none), realised I didn’t care, and walked to the taxi rank.
It was 7am when I arrived back at my cave of a bedroom (the shutter was down and no alarm was being set). I woke up in the afternoon, decided I wanted to make the room stop spinning/drink all the water in the world/go for a Chinese, but mainly the last one, so rounded up the troops and expressed how much a good oriental meal complete with many prawn crackers would solve all our hangover problems right now.
Throwback of me and Cartman NYE before
Home or away, seems I’m still that English girl who craves Chinese food after a night out, but I’m not sorry for it. I had a good time with good friends, and a night to remember, which definitely cost me less than the New Years Eve prior to that (no doubt it was great, but left me more than £100 out of pocket and queuing outside Charing Cross McDonald’s for a Big Mac). That is a good start to the year in my eyes (not counting the hangover), and I was looking forward to making more memories before leaving for Italy.
As destiny would have it, on returning to Granada, I messaged Sole, and she replied on New Year’s, saying how she was back at home, in Ronda.
Valentine’s Day last year, my heart was left broken. Granada had me completely enamoured, under its bewitching charm and in a state of enraptured stupor. The city, it’s people, and of course, the tapas, had me so fazed I sometimes (more like every day spent there) forgot what I was supposed to be doing (talk to any Erasmus student and this seems to be the norm). Uni had been tough, yes ** don’t worry this is a rant-free zone** but I had reached a point (FINALMENTE) where I actually felt not even Spanish, but Andaluza. Whether Granada approved or not, I considered myself an honorary Andalusian, not a tourist. The city had an overwhelming power to make me feel I just needed to be part of it. This sounds incredibly cliché and perhaps portrays me as a little obsessed, but it is what it is. Go there and you’ll find out.
Town stroll with my Irish girl
Vista
For me, the transformation from being naïve foreigner to feeling like “THIS IS HOME” was incredible. Outside of classes I realised what was helping me most to improve language (and therefore mood); making a genuine effort to integrate.
Trying to attain a clear Castilian accent was dropped for liberally slurring words – aka my attempt at speaking andaluz, although at times I’m pretty certain I did not have a clue what I was trying to get across. Staring became less of an annoyance and more a way of life. It’s just people being curious I guess. When you live in such a vibrant place why wouldn’t you want to look at the things around you? Uncertainty over how to approach social situations within a different culture was overcome by abandoning that innate British feeling of awkwardness. Want something? Go and get it. Problem? Sort it out, or get over it.
Stop worrying. Relajate.
Andalusia is loud, open, unique and alive in character, all admirable traits its people also possess. A selection of whom, if it weren’t for their kindness, friendship, and patience, my Erasmus stay would not have been as enjoyable as it was.
Sole had been on the Erasmus programme in Rome the year before, and knew the whole deal with being the newcomer; taking pity on ‘la pobre’/the poor girl, she taught me that it is okay to make mistakes and that ‘people stare because they’re stupid. Stare back.’ Okay so maybe people should be a bit less obvious with their curiosity…Preach! Being a student of the ‘Facultad de Medicina’ in Granada, she was into fundraisers (they all go on a big holiday at the end of term), which meant serious socialising. I tagged along to a few, which consequently meant drinking enough sangría to become fluent. And you know what, I think it worked. Eventually. I can’t thank this girl enough for being so welcoming, and giving me the chance to understand what it really means to be Spanish, to be andaluz.
Pásame la botella
Learning the lingo
Through friends of friends I also had luck in finding an intercambio partner, Cristina, who was studying education at Granada. To my surprise, she and her group of friends had found difficulty in coming across a native English speaker to practice their language with, which is weird, because a few English people I knew had had the exact opposite problem “SPANIARDS? WHERE DO YOU FIND THEM?”
Going for un café and tapas with them was a novelty at first.
‘Okay more of them are joining. Cool, this is good. Making friends. Oh my god. They’ve started speaking to each other. Woah. That’s fast . What did she say? Okay nope yeah didn’t get that. Okay she’s repeating what she said. Yep. Got it. That definitely was NOT Spanish. Okay coffee is here, good. I don’t drink coffee. Smile. Look like you’re part of the conversation. MUY BIEN’
The more I met up with them, the quicker they clocked on when I just wasn’t comprehending, and respect to them, they actually strived to make me understand, and speak, and learn how to roll my bloody R’s. Which is apparently my go-to for making Spaniards laugh.
Yes, I am certain this is only supposed to serve one
By Christmas I was drinking coffee every morning, I was often late to class (okay fine I have always been THAT person), and there was nothing better than tostada andaluz to start the day – I will have my toast drenched in olive oil, covered in tomato pulp and sprinkled with salt, por favor. Being in the ‘queue’ at the Mercadona delicatessen no longer struck me with a chilling fear and I just did not care that everyone at my perfect gym was so tanned-toned-fit’n’ready; ONE DAY I SWEAR. UN DÍA. Instead I did my thing like los andaluces; ate some tapas, enjoyed what was around me, shouted for my order and learned to say yes more.
