For those of you who know me, you might be thinking “where has she been?”, “Sam, you have a blog?” or “Did she ever make it through Italy without turning into Big Momma?”
To that I will say: 1. Read on 2. Yes, unbelievable I know! 3. No, no I did not. The pastries got me, and yes, they GOT ME GOOD.
It’s been a good long while since I last wrote and I can’t help but get frustrated at myself for not having put pen to paper or rather finger to keyboard sooner. Writing I realised is one of the things I love to do most, and it seems I also get some kind of weird kick out of putting my thoughts into words; reading them later andproceeding to cringe so unbelievably hard at what I published willingly.
So here we go!
First of all, there are few things I should let you in on since I last posted.
I graduated!
I joined the real world and had a 9-5 job in London
I left said real world job and London
I am no longer in the UK
I am no longer in Europe
And this is the story of how my now rickety, battered, and barely together suitcase and I decided to go against the status quo and sort of go a bit everywhere.
So there she sits in the corner of my room; a bit dusty, a lot broken. Not quite neglected but she’s definitely seen better days; she also definitely used to have 4 working wheels…
The last trip was to be the final one, but I have a feeling it might not be. Her once brilliant red shines still among beaten patches. The last flight was a bit touch and go but with enough optimism, positivity, blessed thoughts, prayers and insane amounts of cellophane, she made the journey. Her outer pocket’s stitching once baring the full brunt of 20 plus kilograms (without a doubt more than what was permitted)is in now questionable condition, but nevertheless she sits there proudly, her flowers only slightly faded, her big rainbow band casually rested on her handle, just there in case the moment should come, and it will.
My friend since those Erasmus days; many a travel we’ve shared together and many a fight we’ve had; with fellow passengers, bus drivers, scales and each other.
Her journey began in Granada, saving me in my hour of need (how does someone collect so much STUFF in 5-6 months/why won’t it all fit?!/where am I gonna put my rice-cooker? *panics*) and ever since, she’s accompanied me on many a weekend escapade/family visit/new adventure.
So here we are now, in Mexico.
Bit of a switch-up, but like Dad said “You always have to be different,don’t you?”
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”.
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.
October last year saw the peak of our Granada days; the sun was still out, beach trips were still a regular thing, and I still had enough pesetas to carry on living la vida loca. Carys and I had decided it was time to be spontaneous again (the haircut thing hadn’t really gone to plan) and felt like a change in scenery would do us good, so we packed our bags and headed to la capital that weekend.
You would think that having been residents in Granada for a couple of months we would have accustomed ourselves to the way things worked in general; i.e. looking at a bus timetable doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to be guaranteed a spot on that bus. Yeah, this is how you end up drunk at 1.a.m. on a five hour coach ride.
Venturing out of Andalucía was a bit weird; for one it was somewhere new – granted, I’ve been to Madrid before, but an afternoon spent in a shopping centre while waiting to go to Barajas airport doesn’t really count. Another thing is that a long distance journey on the road, no matter where the destination, will always involve two things: Haribo and insomnia. Arriving in Madrid at six in the morning was bizarre to say the least, and as we split up to get the metro to different friends’ places, exhaustion and sugar-lows hit.
Capital Weekend
Carys and I, smelly, drained, and delirious, were greeted at Puerta del Angel metro station by fabulous Fifi, our friend from uni at Portsmouth, who was also on placement. Unlike us lot based in Granada, poor Fifi had to get the metro to uni; to the centre; to anywhere which required more than a grocery shop. She and Alex, another of our uni friends, who was teaching English on her year abroad, were sharing a flat with a couple of other Erasmus students. So at half six in the morning us Pompey girls sat down in the kitchen with cuppas (naturally) and discussed how things were going so far for us on the year abroad.
El bueno, el malo y el feo:
Turns out that people stare at you in Madrid too, in fact, it seems to be a national custom, so deal with it. Since our trip to the city I took a leaf out of Ali’s book: ‘stare right back’ – which made for an interesting experience on the Metro escalators…
Although Fifi had to travel further for classes, at least she enjoyed them; apparently university in Madrid was organised, helpful, and actually doable, a phenomenon beyond mine and Carys’ comprehension.
Language barrier was a popular topic – ‘it’s not perfect…I’m getting there…kind of – Booze seems to help.’
Madrileños are a different type of person – you can’t be using that Andaluz accent round there; drop that ‘s’ and you’ll be losing you’re street cred.
The Erasmus grant, as excessive as it seems, does not go as far in the capital as it does in the South; in fact, after a couple of days, we started to miss our beloved Granada (and the sound of leftover change).
Overall we agreed on one thing. Spain>home. Spain IS home.
Hostesses with the mostest
After our little catch up Carys and I passed out till the afternoon, when we thought it a good idea to actually explore the city a little. Forgetting it was getting on for winter and we were no longer in the sunny south, we found ourselves in the centre, donning summer dresses, complete with tights and jackets. We had clearly been thinking more ‘GIRLS WEEKEND AWAY’ than ‘the rest of Spain might not be as warm in October’.
Out and About
Plaza Mayor
When in the capital city, expect to pay those prices. Madrid reminded me a lot of London; the tube, the air of being superior; the ‘give-a-monkeys-I’m-better-than-you’ attitude. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t as pretentious as I make it out to be, in fact, it has a lot to offer; and I’m not being funny but I’d choose a day out there rather than beating off crazed shoppers in Oxford St any day. Wandering around the Plaza Mayor and taking lots of standard tourist piccies, we noticed we weren’t the only ones. Madrid is important; it has an air of history and prestige about it, and richness in culture that would take more than a few days to truly experience. That’s the thing; it’s so big. We had a vague list of places we wanted to see while there, the Plaza Mayor, ‘that famous boat lake’ (Parque del Retiro), and Primark (you know, only if we were in the vicinity…). Turns out we weren’t, and time didn’t allow it in any case. Returning from our walk-about, we got changed and joined the girls for tapas in the evening, which turned into a night out on the town. Bearing in mind the next day we had a 3K colour run (which required us to be present at 9am), bar hopping may have been a rash shout. Nevertheless the tapas were lovely (if not a little expensive) and tequila always means a fun time…
Tasty Tapas
Dobby and Badger hit the capital
Chicas
Dangerous
After four hours sleep, Alex and Carys did the sensible thing and pied off the run, while Fifi and I (#survivors) made the mad decision to go ahead and catch an early (TOO DAMN EARLY) train to the race – which I should mention was nearer to the airport than the centre. In fact, it was on the bloody motorway, in the middle of bloody nowhere, that had been closed just for this event. To say I felt worse for wear was an understatement, but you don’t get to run around covered in paint everyday, so why not? After walking a ridiculous distance from the station to where it was all kicking off, we were given our T-shirts and paint, when we noticed a food/beerstall. I am a strong believer in hair-of-the-dog. Some Spaniards perhaps not, as was obvious from the shade being thrown. There was a bloke there dressed in a bright green Borat thong and a wig , so I figured that would give them something more interesting to look at. The Holi Run in Madrid was the first of its kind to take place in Spain, which made me feel a bit special; it was great fun, and I’d recommend it to anyone, to take place in any kind of event like this, especially if abroad. There was a Zumba workout before the run; music was blared at different stages throughout the race, where buckets of powder paint and people with paint guns sprayed colour everywhere and on anyone passing through. It was amazing, right up to the point where I was choking on paint. Getting home was… well, it looked like everyone had had a go at painting and decorating on the tube. Fifi and I were starving, so we headed towards the centre and found ourselves in a lovely little square. The really posh kind where you judge the price of restaurants by how nice the tables and chairs outside are. Sticking with a decision we sat outside one of them (OMG I REALLY HOPE THIS PAINT DOESN’T STAIN THE CHAIR) and the lady took our orders. Being amongst the masses of fellow runners I was not aware until up to this point of how covered in ALL-THE-FREAKING-COLOURS-OF-THE-RAINBOW-dust as I was. This aside, I didn’t feel too judged; obviously to hungry to care!
4 hours sleep
Add Paint
Add Beer
Result
Needing a Wash
Funnyman
That night, despite being not-all-there due to lack of sleep, we carried on with the NON-STOP-GO-MAD-OR-GO-HOME mentality and went out again. The Granada boys who had made the trip to Madrid as well had gone to Kapital, one of the city’s most popular clubs, which, had it not cost 20 bob to go in, I would have gone – apparently they had a booth and vodka by the bottle… NEXT TIME. Instead, we had gone to Calle Huertas, a street lined with bars and ‘clubs’ typical of Madrid nightlife; loud music, crowds and shots. At one point I remember us being in a decent nearby club/bar – the entry was free, the bar was free (tinto and beer, but I’m not complaining!) and there was a Maccy Ds round the corner.
Fiesteras
campeonas
Madrid Meal Mania
Madrid is beautiful, the night-life great, and the food, quality.
But I’ve been in the south too long. I refuse to PAY FOR TAPAS.
Probably not the most cringe/cheesy/OMG Kill Me Now Pls Facebook status I’ve ever published whilst intoxicated, but it’s definitely up there.
I wrote this a month into my stay in Granada. Pathetic as the title reads, I didn’t miss home per se; la vida Erasmus doesn’t allow it; there are just too many things to do and see, and in the first month I was completely lost to Spain and its way of life. There were only moments, I found, when visiting a place would stir a memory, or when things that seemed a little difficult abroad felt near enough impossible when compared to HOW EASY IT IS AT HOME. In coping with this feeling that cropped up from time-to-time, I found ways to avoid succumbing to total ‘GET ME ON A PLANE HOME NOW’ meltdown mode:
DO NOT dwell on things that are better/easier/not as problematic at home. You are NOT at home; get accustomed to your new situation and deal with it.
Pompey Uni I’ll Never Take You For Granted Again
DO make yourself busy. You’re hardly going to be thinking of Friday night’s pub quiz or Mum’s roast dinner when on a beach or climbing a mountain, are you?
Not thinking about roast dinners
DO NOT feel bad if you want to mope around. It is okay to spend a day in your cave of a room (mine had shutters that literally turned it pitch black), watching Disney movies and scoffing Pringles. Just don’t make it a habit. Give yourself a break, get it out of your system, and move on.
Dobby in her cave
Screw Uni, let’s eat sandwiches
DO try something different. Embrace your new surroundings and make it your goal to become part of where you are. Change yourself to settle into your new life better; you’ll probably find yourself doing that unintentionally anyway.
Running, throwing paint and drinking beer is pretty different
Being Spanish with my Spanish girl, Botellón, Granada
DO stock up on plenty of teabags, or whatever your go-to comfort is.
or Mama’s Spring Rolls
DO get productive; join a gym, find a tandem/intercambio partner, book a trip, or even do the readings for your next literature class. Doing something there will feel twice as much of an achievement and you’ll be too engrossed to miss home. Writing it all down will help too.
Exploring Ronda
English Gals visit la capital
DO find your local Irish pub, in my case, Paddy’s, a fine establishment in which this legendary status was written. It served as a home from home when Spanish culture became a bit too overwhelming. Tony the barman would keep the cocktails coming and the 80’s tunes playing, plus there was a cracking kebaby opposite.
‘Tony, I’ll be right back. I’m making toast’
DO surround yourself with people who make you feel happy. Misery loves company and is a dangerous route to depression.
Dobby and Badger
Chillin’ with Hall & Oates
DO avoid Skype, use SMS instead. I skyped my family a good amount while on my year abroad, but sometimes I was really lagging, especially at the beginning.
Dad thinks he’s really funny
“SAM WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU STILL IN SPAIN? ARE YOU EATING?!” Genuine Mum response to the first video-call I had made in a while.
I tried to explain to them that the time to worry was not when I had gone A.W.O.L, but when I was constantly calling. In November my language had hit a plateau, my confidence was at an all-time-low and Uni was a big stinking pile of poo, not to mention the landlord was being an absolute *Insert preferred expletive here*. For this, Mum and Dad were being pestered by me 24/7 via Skype, email, text, and fax, had they owned a machine. Actually being able to see their worried faces through the computer screen made the feeling of homesickness so real, and the distance between us even greater. I don’t say stop video-calling altogether, just avoid it if it’s going to make you miss home more. And don’t forget to contact loved ones altogether; you may be busy, but they still need to know if you’re being fed and watered.
Skype Silliness
My Dad was the recipient of many “Sorry! Don’t worry, I’m still alive, just busy!” texts, and that was sufficient enough. To which he would reply:
“Glad you’re having a good time, we miss you, I’m in The Portrait.”
Thailand is known for being home to Southeast Asia’s wildest beasts and most curious creepy crawlies, but nothing will instigate more the sensation of utter terror than the sight of a lingering mosquito (take it from me, Dengue fever ain’t all that fun).
It doesn’t matter how OTT the acting is (at times abysmal), how out of sync the background music is, or even how many adverts there are, you will somehow find yourself shedding a tear over what has become your favourite Thai lakorn drama, because THEY JUST DON’T REALISE THEY BELONG TOGETHER FOREVER AND IT’S SO DAMN FRUSTRATING!
Everyone is related – going to market with Mum involved constantly stopping to say hello to relatives I didn’t even know I had, e.g. “This is your Grandad’s second cousin’s brother-in-law”.
On the subject of market, I have never felt so white in my life.
It is possible to sweat as soon as you step out of the shower, or in my case, the washroom equipped with bowl and bucket of water – that’s right, they do it old skool here, a la ‘splash’n’dash’.
Sitting in the back of a pick-up truck is the most fun ever, until the heavens decide to open up – when it rains, it pours… so much so that the road becomes invisible; gotta love monsoon season!
Rain, Road and Ricefields
Not the happiest passenger
Tiger Balm is a remedy that cures everything – bruises, mosquito bites, broken heart, you name it!
Apparently (Grandma says) 200 Baht, the equivalent of £4, is too expensive for a hand-cart of coconuts (40 to be precise!).
Rice is life. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, and even dessert! The word for dinner/meal in Thai actually translates ‘eat rice’ – true story.
These are only a few things I have learnt from this trip and previous visits to Mum’s village (particularly the first one, Grandma just came out with it; apparently her dad was from China and died from smoking too much opium). This is not a holiday. My dad jokes that when we come back from ‘up-country’, Ban Wat, Nakhon Ratchasima, to be exact, it’s as if we’ve returned from a mission like in one of those Bruce Willis films. What he means by this is, the two weeks that we spend here in the village on every trip we make to Thailand, this is the hardest part, in so many ways. For one thing everything is so different, so raw. It’s not a bad thing, at all; in fact it is quite refreshing to experience living this way. I think things are appreciated more as a result. I will give examples: the kitchen in my grandparents’ house is not actually in the house. It is an outdoor shelter of tin sheets under which there are wooden tables and seats. The bed is a hard mattress on the floor, the cooker is an Asian barbecue and the sink is a hose and a giant plastic tub. This all sounds quite basic, but it works, and why shouldn’t it? The only pain is that everything cooked must be done there and then, but if it produces the freshest food, then is that really so terrible?
Country Kitchen
The Cooker
Grandad chopping fresh coconut
Grandma on Washing-Up Duty
It is always inspiring to see Mum back in the place where she grew up, and she truly is in her element, running around cooking for everyone, strutting about in a sarong and flip flops, speaking (yelling) in her Korat dialect ever so sassily. Yet at the same time, you can see how it is so difficult for her to come back, because of how taxing it was before. I think subconsciously she goes back to her role of caring for everyone, as in back when she was 14, having left school to work with her dad constructing roads, and to later help her mum look after 6 siblings. Accustomed to the ways of Western life now, I can see the frustration Mum faces; also having to play translator for two weeks can’t be a doddle, “MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM what are they saying to me?!”.
Sassy Country Girl
Every time we move on from Ban Wat it is nice to see Mum. I say this because although we are staying in the same house and visiting the same places, we see her only in passing, or when she has the time to sit down after rushing around trying to see everyone. This brings me onto the main reason why our ‘mission’ is so tough. We try to go to Thailand every three years, at one point we had to leave it six years because of political unrest in the country. This gives Mum two weeks for every three years to see the majority of her family. From day one there is a countdown on the time she has, and as soon as we step off of the bus from Bangkok it settles in that there are only 14 days to enjoy village life. For Mum this means 14 days to see everyone she can, and spend as much time catching up as she can. Sometimes, it doesn’t happen, which just makes this flying visit all the more heartbreaking. When I was nine I remember crying in Granddad’s truck on the way to the bus station, because I had left my watch at their house. The watch was just an excuse to come back; I really wasn’t ready to leave, and this is the feeling I’m dreading when the day comes this time round.
Here’s the first entry, it’s a bit lengthy but give it a chance, I won’t be posting every minute of the day and will keep the Brit-abroad rants to a minimum, promise. x
Four days left. I’m itching to go; I have my euros, a place to stay and am pretty sure I printed my boarding pass as soon as you could. Have reached state of mind where everything on this end is done (I hope!) and I literally have no purpose at home apart from fridge-raiding. Don’t get me wrong, I love coming home for the summer, and seeing family and friends, it’s just that Uni ended a while ago, and between the whole ordeal of finding a flat in Spain, and quitting work, I’ve found myself in a bit of a limbo.
At first I’d describe it as a rut of procrastination (you know the deal, when you have so much to do that actually …sorry-not-sorry-don’t-have-time-too-busy-conducting-extensive-YouTube-video-research)… After finally coming to terms with my pending departure (this was a couple of months ago, which in all fairness, is a feat for someone who lives for last minute) I thought I’d better find a place to live, just to avoid the whole being homeless abroad sitch. There is actually an abundance of websites and Facebook groups listing hundreds of places of residence to choose from in Granada, so mistakenly I assumed this would be no mission; I didn’t think I was making diva demands – plain and simple, I was looking for a shared apartment/flat, preferably with Spanish-speakers, within max 20 mins walking distance of the faculty I’d be attending. Unfortunately it is much more difficult than first thought, but oddly I can’t give an exact reason why, there are so many places, but there are also plenty of other people looking, and the fact I’m only in Granada for 6 months was a major obstacle. I also think the new project of finding somewhere to stay (which involved a deadline, so needless to say, I was a wreck) had turned me into a crazed Goldilocks-esque character – too good a price to be true, too quiet, not close enough… In the end my dad had had enough of my stressing out – ‘JUST PICK ONE!’ and it turns out I found one of a distance that was just right (f.y.i. GoogleMaps has been my best friend throughout this flat search drama, and I can honestly say I recognise almost every street name in the Plaza de Toros/Cartuja area in Granada. Yes I do realise how sad that is.)
Meanwhile, going through the various ERASMUS Facebook groups and posting adverts on sites like EasyPiso a sense of panic arose; I can’t even write a simple paragraph without doubting my ability to use Spanish – is that too formal? Should I say that? Does that sound Spanish-y enough?
Oh my god. How am I actually going to be able to TALK to real Spanish people? I started to receive responses as these thoughts set in, referring to WordReference and online translators JUST IN CASE I had read or written something out of context – I mean, this is serious stuff, like: Is the room free? Will you let me stay for just 6 months? PLEASE? How do I pay a deposit? Can I pay it now? GIVE ME THE ROOM!!
…
as it turns out exchanging emails with potential flatmates/landlords is a great way to revise. Let’s just hope throwing myself in the deep end in non-virtual, actual, real-life Spain pays off as well.
In all seriousness, for those looking for a place to stay, particularly in Granada, I’d recommend using EasyPiso, or Milanuncios, the first site actually updates you with emails everyday on possible flats suited to your requirements. Alternatively or additionally try posting on Facebook groups – I received a few responses and the people I spoke to actually helped massively in my search.
I’d also recommend revising during the summer before heading out there, which is advice I should have taken myself tbh. Don’t worry about me though guys, just dug out my ‘Acción Gramática’ from the various crates of toot I haven’t unpacked yet from Uni… ALL SET!
