Running on from my last post (it’s been a while I know, stay with me people!) I had just celebrated New Year’s (2016!?) with some of my best friends, and somehow had already found myself awaiting an exciting opportunity. The interview I had joked about with Josh and his boss was, unbeknownst to me at the time, the beginning of my hiring process.
Fast-forward a couple of months and a few excited video calls later, I was offered a job at one of Spain’s most exciting start-up companies, and to top it all off, I would be working alongside my best friend, in the heart of the Spanish capital – was this living la vida loca?
Spanish smiles all round!
I reread the email again and again, for fear it was all too good to be true – but it was all there. Dreams of sangria nights and constant sunshine were soon to be a reality! Now was the time to get excited! …and also a bit more organised.
I had lived abroad before, but this jaunt felt different. If given the opportunity, I think everyone should jump at the chance to take on an experience in a different country – there’s nothing quite like exploring what life could be like on different soil, and more often than not you end up discovering more about yourself than anything else.
Erasmus 2013 – the love for Spain grows greater
The prospect of moving my life to Madrid felt different in many ways because, unlike my Erasmus stays, I didn’t know how long I’d be out there for. We could be talking years, not months; the job opportunity I was given was a permanent position, and I had a feeling I would (at long last!) be living out of more than just my 23kg suitcase – I could actually invest in some homeware!
It was different also in the sense that I’d be working. It wasn’t all going to be “Fun in the Sun” (although I had high hopes that a lot of the time it would be), but I was excited, because I would be starting a life out there, somewhere new, making new friends, knowing that I’d have a base and the time to really enjoy the place and all it had to offer – and not by the ticking clock.
Soon to be home…?
By this time, Josh had been living in Madrid for almost a year, and from everything he’d told me, I was itching to leave London behind already. Working at the bank combined with the English winter (if you know, you know) spurred me on even more to make the move, and as soon as I received confirmation, I was ready to go.
The idea of homesickness hadn’t really crossed my mind this time round, as my poor family were used to my coming and going by then.
“Just let us know in time so I can get the beers in and your Mum can stock up the fridge.” I am, afterall, an absolute boozehound with the appetite of a bodybuilder.
Madrid had the advantage of only being a 2.5 hour flight away, something myself and my family could deal with. In fact, on learning of my news, Mum & Dad were overjoyed!
I handed in my notice and started looking for the perfect room in the heart of the capital – I wanted to be right slap bang in the very centre of all Madrid’s madness.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, being from London was exciting, but living in Suburbia, you’re somewhat limited to what activities the city can offer. You really need to be in zone 2 (at least) and have a decent pay packet to really enjoy yourself, while being able to pay bills, save, and not have to put up with THAT commute. Madrid was different. Looking at the prices of rent, I could be living in a flat-share in Sol, literally the most central point of the city, with a nice balcony, a view of the Plaza Mayor, and still have money leftover to have a life, travel, eat out – also I COULD WALK TO WORK.
By some sweet miracle that’s exactly where I ended up.
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.
Late July in Madrid was miserable. The weather was glorious; it was hot, but not quite ‘August hot’ and everyone was in holiday-mode; part of me forgot that I was a working professional and the six-week summer break was no longer applicable. And the reason I was sad was because after months of beers on the balcony, living in a bit of a bubble, and loving every moment of our Sol apartment life together, time at Casa Calle de Atocha was up.
I watched Esaú clear out his things as he packed his suitcase; the semester was over and he would be heading back to his native Mexico the following week, which I was trying very hard not to think about.
“Do you want this?”
“YES.”
“And this?”
“YES.”
“Probably this too, right?”
“GIMME.”
The only good thing to come from his leaving, was that I was going to inherit a few belongings he couldn’t quite fit into his case/those he would have thrown away, had I let him.
Our balcón
Esaú is not like me. He is organised. He is very black and white about some things. Nothing in his wardrobe is over 2 years old. If it doesn’t fit anymore, he throws it out. If the material is old, he throws it out. If something no longer fulfils its use, he doesn’t need it, therefore, that’s right, he throws it out. He is, what I would call, rational.
I, on the other hand, still have a plane ticket from when I went to Bangkok in 2011.
I probably still have most of my old boarding passes. Travel brochures of cities I’ve visited, museum passes, postcards, you name it, I’ve kept it.
“But…why?” Esaú couldn’t quite grasp my reasoning for wanting to hang on to E V E R Y T H I N G.
I would always give him the same answer, which has become a running joke between us. “Keep it for the memories”.
“Sam, it’s an old cinema ticket…”
No ‘maybe’ piles here
Okay, so it seems a bit much I’ll admit, and just to make this clear, I don’t literally hold onto every piece of paper that passes through my hands. In this case, it wasn’t just any old cinema ticket, it was from one of our very first dates together. I explained this to him (blushing a lovely shade of beetroot the whole time) and he gave me a little smile, which partly said “you’re a bit nuts” and partly “that’s quite sweet actually”, or so I’d like to think.
For me, the little things count, and, as insignificant or disposable as they might appear to someone on the surface, perhaps just another proof of purchase, or silly souvenir with googly-eyes; if something holds a certain connection to a specific memory, and reminds me of a time I wish to treasure; a moment I would like to revisit long after it has passed, then it carries a completely different value altogether.
Admittedly, I am a hoarder. I don’t like throwing things away. I am a romantic at heart, a sensitive soul who gets attached to objects all too easily, should they remind me of a certain person, place, or a moment that was special to me. But having moved around so often, it’s times like these, when you’re packing and unpacking, that you have to decide what stays and what goes, and in this case, Esaú had a point.
Just a few collectables (including the cinema ticket of course)
So I’ve learnt from my ways. I no longer keep a hold of as many things and I’ve become a bit more selective with my choice of memorabilia. When all’s said and done, I’ve realised, it is not the object I’m attached to, but rather, the moment I associate it with.
In the end, are all these little trinkets and keepsakes worth, well, just that – the sake of keeping?
As I pondered over this great debate, Esaú continued to sort through the remainder of his things. It was interesting to observe the thought-process behind someone-else’s packing, especially when their method was so different, and from my perspective, cut-throat. A small voice in the back of my head wondered what had happened to all the tickets he must have gone through on his various trips in the past year alone *sigh* ‘What a collection there could have been’
His process was very thorough, efficient, and managed without distraction (impressive, considering I always get in the way, whether intentionally or not).
But something was off.
He had paused. There was a moment of lapse in his concentration; a glitch in the matrix.
His wardrobe looked really sad. Only a bundled-up duvet remained, lonely on its shelf. All of his possessions had been snatched from where they used to hang happily at home, now neatly tucked away, bound inside the almost-ready suitcase. All of his things that is, save for one or rather two items.
Sadness
“How long have you had those boots?”
He was stood over and staring poignantly at the pair of leather booties, which had made their way out of the wardrobe but not quite into the suitcase. Slightly scuffed, and a little worn in, these boots would probably be considered ‘past-it’ in Esaú’s book, but by my standards, I think they still had a lot of life left in them yet.
He always takes extremely good care of his belongings, including this particular pair of boots. They were frequently cleaned, polished and treated with the tender love and care they deserved. So why would he throw them? Well, they didn’t look like new, and they’d been around for longer than a couple of years. They were, I had supposed, about to get the boot.
GET IT?
THE BOOT.
But no.
And actually, this is what’s curious. After adopting Esaú’s way of thinking and attempting to ‘cut back’ as it were on my addictive nature of collecting bits and bobs, I felt two things:
Freer. There is no guilt now when throwing away decidedly unnecessary items. Disposing of an entrance band does not mean I won’t remember enjoying the gig.
The pickier I am with the things I keep, the greater their sentimental value becomes.
Which was exactly what was running through my boyfriend’s head in that very moment.
These were not just a pair of shoes. They told a story. His story.
“You know, you don’t have to throw them…”
“It’s just…they’ve been everywhere with me.”
His little face said it all. The boots had gotten the green light. They would live to see another day, and I was certain, many more countries.
These boots had trekked pretty much all over Europe; endured puddles in London, the Dublin terrain during winter, and the bar crawls in Paris. The soles had undergone many a city tour, they’d seen Prague, Budapest and even Singapore. They’d been on trains, planes, and tuk-tuks; survived the snow-filled streets of Toronto (their origin) and the immense humidity of bustling Bangkok. They’d been trodden on by fellow tourists, they’d had to run to catch domestic and international flights and they’d been loyal when the weather was less so; they’d travelled three continents and had stayed faithful throughout it all.
For this reason precisely, they wouldn’t make it into the case.
Instead, they would be doing what they do best, and taking him on the long flight home, accompanying him on what was to be another adventure.
Ayutthaya, Thailand
London
Prague
Paris
Madrid
Budapest
Singapore
With this decision finalized, the suitcase was zipped up and the padlock firmly secured. Everything that needed to be, was stowed away safely. Including, I had noticed, every single gift I’d given him. Every token I’d bought him from a trip I’d been on, be it a shot glass or a tiny seashell; a colourful magnet or a novelty keyring – they’d all been carefully packed away first. It warmed the cockles of my heart.
We’re all big softies really.
Whether we openly admit it or not, I am pretty sure everyone keeps ‘silly little things’ purely for their sentimental value.
This couldn’t be more true than when you’re in a long-distance relationship.
When your person is no longer there, at least not physically, a lot of what you have left when they’ve gone, is the comfort of their memory.
Unfortunately we couldn’t keep our flat decor for the memories
A week went by, and it came time for Esaú (and his boots) to make their way home. Things just didn’t feel the same once he’d gone. My room was bare, the small balcony was now far too big and to be completely honest, I couldn’t help but feel like my heart had a great big fat hole in it.
Going from seeing someone everyday to not at all can make you miss every little thing about them, those aspects that you had become so familiar with before, and also, let’s face it, those you had taken for granted. For this reason alone, I was happy I’d saved those tickets, the silly snapchat videos, the trinkets from our days out together, and it goes without saying, every sweet and thoughtful gift he had given me during our time together. Because, until we would see each other again, these collectables would make the distance that little bit less painful, and help keep our memories very much alive, comforting me in the fact that there would be more like that to come.
Don’t tell, but I also kept his old metrocard when he left.
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.
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.
So as you would have already realised from previous posts, university life in Spain was not all it was cracked up to be. In fact, aside from having a decent café with Alhambra beer on tap, I do not have many positive things to say about my time spent in la facultad de filosofía y letras, University of Granada.
The best bit
Faculty Fail
Teachers seemed to be either condescending or just plain mean. I know what this sounds like. *Stupid English girl thinks studying is difficult* Fact is, you’re on your own, and sometimes it can get to you.
“Do you understand?”
“No”
“You need to tell me if you don’t understand”
I’ll just keep my hand up for the whole lesson then.
***
“So is there somewhere I can find notes for this lesson online? I tried to understand, but I’m finding it a bit difficult to keep up with this class.”
“I don’t like using the internet, [F.Y.I THIS INCLUDES EMAIL – I’m not joking.] but you can ask your classmates for their notes”
Yes Miss, I will go up to one of the Spanish classmates I’ve never spoken to before and: “HIYA LOVE, MIND IF I COPY YOUR NOTES? GRASSY ARSE”
Italian class was the absolute worst. Picture the scene. I’m sat in the front row, with three other English Erasmus students (or la colonia Britanica/The British Colony as Miss so endearingly named us). The prof talks specifically to the other side of the class (Spaniards): “Samantha is the only one going to Italy next semester”. She then turns to face me, with a glare that screams ‘What are you even doing here?’, before delivering a line so pretentious, and laced with what I would have interpreted as sly bitterness: “Please, don’t tell them you studied it here… I’ll deny it.”
***JAJAJA***
Just the motivation one needs. Was it really necessary?
Sad as it is to admit, it gave me a tougher skin, because the one thing used to mark me out as the dumb English girl became my strongest form of defence.
So right after Ms Jumped-Up Prof had sassed me out in Spanish, I broke into my London accent and openly ranted about her attitude problem to a friend.
Oficina de relaciones internacionales/PLEASE SIGN THIS FORM SO MY UNI CAN SEND ME MONEY
Do those timetables make sense to you? NOPE me neither
It’s silly, it’s childish and I should probably get over some old lady humiliating me in front of people I’ll most likely never see again. But at the time it was all I had to go on, and it led me to become unfazed by the notion of being misunderstood. Going to class became a lot easier when I stopped caring so much about what other people thought and whether or not I was saying the right thing. I also came to learn that I was not the only one struggling. Aside from us Pompey lot, most Erasmus students (not just from the UK) were finding it challenging, or at the very least frustrating, to study in the faculty.
November left me feeling stupid, poor and fat (frustration had been taken out on the tapas). University attendance pretty much matched my mood. Needless to say, when first semester was done, I was SO. DONE.
Even though university was getting a bit ‘meh’ in Granada (poo hadn’t quite hit the fan at this point), I still found myself completely enamoured by Spain and the astounding city I was lucky enough to call home.
During my time at university in Portsmouth I was #blessed (and still am!) to have a close group of girlfriends (and not forgetting Casalooch). Being the only one of the ‘uni galz’ to take a course with a year abroad, I found myself missing out on third year house fun (we shared a house in second year and I can honestly say those girls got me through – the coursework; the mice; the stressful part-time job). If I’m honest I was so excited to be abroad that I was trying to forget the fact I was leaving behind my friends, and would actually have to *gasp* make new ones. In a way I was jealous that they all got to stay together and continue Uni antics without me; hangovers, rodents and all. It came as great news to me therefore, that five of them were planning to make a visit to España (Ellie it’s okay, I don’t hold it against you, but you missed out on good kebab) – OLÉ! To say I was looking forward to it would have been a massive understatement.
Mis chicas
The night before the girls’ flight I travelled to Malaga to stay with Joshua and, as was the ritual, he cooked Carbonara, we drank wine, and then caught up on how Uni was going (not well), how money was going (WHERE is it going?!) and how our Spanish was coming along (better…with wine).
He had told the girls he would meet them at the airport when they arrived, before they all planned to bus it up to Granada together. As a surprise I decided to come along as well, and as we came out of the train station just opposite the airport, we could make out a group of weary travellers. At this point I hid behind Joshua as he strode towards them *cue girly screams*. So overcome with emotion, I ended up doing the slow-mo-long-distance embrace with Liz and attacked the others with equally expressive hugs and ‘IT’S BEEN SO LONG I’VE MISSED YOU’s. You could have told me otherwise, but for the four days they visited, it was my birthday weekend. Five of my TOP FRIENDS had come to see ME and we were all going to get drunk and have a merry old time in Spain.
Stupid Selfies
House love
Cheese
#funsies
Priorities first though. From what I understood the girls had not gotten much sleep on their flight, and they had travelled all the way from Pompey at too-early-o’clock in a cab to the airport. They would now have to endure a train, coach, then cab journey to mine… With this realisation we took the next train back to central Malaga, and FOOD.
After chowing down on some burgers (“Sam, how do you say chicken with lots of mayo?”) we moved on from Malaga to mi nueva ciudad. When we finally arrived at Casa de Monosthe girls seemed impressed with my building, and my flat (“Oh my god, it looks just like the one in Taken!”), although the space in my bedroom I had once thought was more-than-enough was now rather questionable… I had made a bid for the flat’s spare mattresses in advance, and after a bit of ‘Changing-Rooms’ type interior design, managed to turn my abode into the Sleepover Club. It made for an interesting night, and those who did not like snuggles (or my snoring) had to put up with it. We were 21 going on 12, and I was updated on all the goss I had missed from third year so far, and in return was obliged to spill the beans on what Erasmus life was really like “Sam do you even go to Uni?” “I’ve seen you go to the beach a lot” “Have you made many friends?” “Any Spanish friends?” “All you do is go out isn’t it?” Nuff with the third degree guys. We had planned to go out that night but everyone was shattered from the cab, plane, train, coach, cab (plus being Top Lad, poor Nicola had been out on the town the night before, POST-hockey match) so we saved our energy for the next day…
