Almost a month down...

In four days I will have been living in Madrid for one month.

Does that make me a local yet or am I still a blow-in?

After a couple of rough weeks, I'm finally beginning to feel like things are falling into place bit by bit. I'm still not there, but I'm getting there.

The first couple of weeks were a lot harder than I thought they were going to be. I'm not saying that I miss home and less now than I did 4 weeks ago, but I'm beginning to deal with it a bit better!

It's hard getting settled into a city and getting to know your surroundings when you're in college 5 days a week, working in the evenings and also working at weekends. I work in an Irish sports bar that opens to show the early rugby games at 5:30am. I'm lucky that I've never had to do one of the 4am starts, but I have had to do some 6:30am ones- which means getting up at 4:45am since I live an hour away from the bar by Metro. Not ideal, but it pays the rent (just barely! The minimum wage in Spain is a joke!)

I'm getting used to the language too- eavesdropping is still an impossibility, but when people speak to me it doesn't feel like a game of Charades anymore. Trying to mime out what you want in a restaurant can put you off your food (and food in Madrid is difficult enough to stomach at times!)

There are still things that I don't understand about the culture (obsessions with bidets and crazies- refer to previous blog) but in time it might come to me!


Last Sunday myself and Yas finished work at 3:30pm so we decided to go somewhere to get out of the house and out of the bar. We headed to Casa de Campo which is Madrid's biggest park. The Phoenix Park has nothing on this baby! The place is incredibly beautiful and it was lovely to get away from the city for a few hours. On the way in we walked past Madrid's biggest zoo. We continued walking around the edge and realised that you can watch the dolphin shows through the trees if you don't want to pay (I'm sure they don't encourage this...) and a little bit further on, you can see into the baboon enclosure- why pay €18.60??
Instead of crows, the place was full of little green parrots (the same kind of ones that we have outside the college- yes there are parrots outside my college.) We walked for miles and barely covered any of the park- I'm dying to get up there for a proper hike! As well as the zoo, it has a boating lake and a theme park (Jack, you better be ready to get your scream on! Forget about laryngitis!)

One of the hardest things about doing an Erasmus year is missing out on things that are happening at home. Seeing friends' Facebook updates about the great night that they just had, or talking to people on the phone about funny things that happened. I'm going to miss my little sister's birthday on the 2nd October and I feel awful about that! Sorry Jess! At the moment Daddy is sick too and I'm going to be over here while he's having an operation done. He chose the perfect time to lose a kidney!

On the other hand though, you start to get excited about the little things again. Every day I'm counting down to when the next person to visit is! Jack in 7 days, Lydia in 42 days... Andrea and Jess, whenever you book your flights I'll start counting! You too Mammy! 

I'm still trying master the small things- like travel- not time travel, but just regular travel. The Metro is fine between the hours of 6am and 1am- but getting to and from work in the mornings and on the late evenings is a nightmare! The bus drops me off miles from home and without the GPRS navigation system on my phone I can't get back again. I tried to get a taxi to bring us to work on Sunday morning and almost messed that up too! I had to ring 11 different numbers before I finally got an answer. The guy agreed to pick us up at 6am so that we could be in work for half past. At 5:40am I looked out the window and he was parked outside. I can only assume he had the meter running... When we went downstairs to get in the taxi we realised that there was a second one waiting for us too... I have no idea why but it started a taxi fight. In the end we hopped into the first one and headed to work. I reckon he gave us a tour of the city before he finally dropped us off- costing €16.80. I miss €6 Maynooth taxis!

Another thing that I'm missing about Ireland is the rubbish television. I tried to set up Sky Go on my laptop last night (simply for an Idiot Abroad 2!) and after about an hour of trying, it told me that I can't watch it unless I'm in Ireland or England! Bleh!

After a month of myself and Yas living in our lovely, big, girly apartment on our own, our new room mate moves in today. I'm due to start work in an hour so I won't get home until about 2am tonight so I'll have no idea what they're like! We've gotten so used to just being the two of us that another person is going to be in our little home! Let alone another dude! 

The toilet seat is not being left up. Just putting it out there. 

Lady Suerte in Las Suertes

At home, I was a believer that you make your own luck. Over here however, I disagree- everything is based on timing and good fortune.

Men, I pity you, I really do. I am so glad that I am a hetrosexual female and that I don't have to deal with a woman's mood swings, simply because one day with Lady Luck was enough to turn me off ladies forever.

On Sunday morning I was supposed to be at work at 7:30am- yes that's right, 7:30am in a bar. An Irish sports bar to be precise, because there are people that are actually crazy enough to be in a bar for the 5:30am rugby matches. I don't understand.

In order to get to work in plenty of time, I was at the Metro station at 6:40am. Normally it takes about 30 minutes to get to work but I like to leave early just to be sure that I'll get there on time. The Metro starts at 6am and usually there are trains about every three minutes.

I waited at the stop for over 15 minutes until a train eventually arrived. We all headed to open the doors and they wouldn't budge. For 5 minutes the train sat staring at us on the platform, taunting us with its bright handles and plastic seats. Then it left. Empty.

The middle-aged business man standing beside me wasn't too enamoured by the experience and stood shouting at the empty tracks and repeatedly spitting on them (what did I say about Madrid loving its Crazies?). I didn't have the heart to tell him that it wasn't helping the situation.

Eventually a train arrived and I got as far as the Operá stop where I needed to change to Banco de España. Again, the trains usually arrive every three minutes- we were waiting another 15 minutes for one while 4 separate trains all headed in the opposite direction!

Eventually I got to work and the day went fine. I was due to finish at 4, then realised that the Dublin match was about to start- no hope of leaving on time then!

I eventually left work at 6pm and decided to head out to the big shopping centre near Las Suertes because it contained (wait for it....) PRIMARK! I needed a new pair of trousers for work since the ones that I had bought originally were labelled wrong and so I spent my days trying to pull them up as they were hanging around my ankles.

I found out how to get to La Gavia shopping centre and eventually (after about an hour's travelling) made it out there. As I got to the front door of is breath-taking shopping centre, I realised that it was Sunday. The whole city practically closes on a Sunday- including big shopping centres.

The journey was not a wasted one however as IKEA was just around the corner! I went to get a bite to eat- and the restaurant was closed. Starving and a little bit miffed, I started walking around, and realised after a few minutes that I was going the wrong way around the shop. Spanish people don't like this...
In the end it was so difficult for me to get around that way that I didn't bother looking at anything and headed straight out of there- and then realised that the restaurant was open!

Had a bite to eat and then went back to looking at the downstairs place where all the goodies are! Bought a few bits, then arrived home and realised I had only bought one pillow case instead of the two that I needed.

Headed to bed with my new pillows and slept soundly for the first time that I arrived in the country!

NB: Never plan anything on a Sunday- I repeat, NEVER and NOTHING!

Methinks it's list time!- Things that Madrileños fecking love!

Your passport number: I am so sick of people asking for my passport number. I seems like you need your passport number to buy a bloody carton of milk! If you are stopped by the police and asked for your DNI card (National Identity Number) or your passport, you can be arrested on the spot if you don't have it. Petty much?

Staring: Madrileños fecking love staring. On the metro, in restaurants, on the street, in class- everywhere! Even if you make eye contact they won't stop!

Jamón: I swear to God you can buy Jamón flavoured crisps over here. That's going too far. Every time I turn around I'm walking into a rotting pig's leg hanging from the ceiling. They smell like dog nuts (the biscuity, nutty things that you mix in with their wet food- not the other nuts).

Crazies: Les encantan los crazies! They are actually everywhere! Every time I walk down the street, someone shouts at me. I was beginning to take it personally until I realised they were shouting at everyone. They love congregating on the metro- so watch out! The other day we were sitting outside Starbucks and a guy wandered through the tables about 5 or 6 times, shouting about capitalism, then he kicked over a bin. Two minutes later, he returned, picked up the bin, picked up an ashtray, spat on the table and then put the ashtray back on top of it. Gentleman. 

Beer & alcohol: They drink beer for breakfast. No joke. You can buy cañas of beer with your desayuno. We were in a bookshop today and they were selling gin. Gin in a bookshop. They even had tonic and lemons too! Gin for the win!

Bright trousers: Someone needs to tell these men that bright coloured trousers are not attractive, especially when worn with loafers without socks. 

Saps. 

Men with bad haircuts: They're everywhere. Barber college, my arse. More like clown college. 

Hard bras: Cups of steel! Well, not quite, but they're really hard and uncomfortable! And no one should have that much padding in a bra!

Fruit & Veg shops: They can't get enough of them.

Olive oil: Like seriously guys, 40 calories in one tesapoon of oil.

Hating vegetarians: Spain is ridiculously difficult for vegetarians! During Franco's regime, vegetarianism was discouraged and any veggie restaurants were shut down. We went for lunch the other day and were told that we could only take the table as long as we were ordering the Menu del Día- grand for me, but there was nothing for veggies at all! That was Yas gone! In the end it cost her more for a little bit of iceberg lettuce, a few olives, some tomato, chips, a coffee and a drink than it did for my Menu del Día- a starter, chicken breast with salad and chips, a drink, bread and a dessert! If you are travelling to Spain on a veggie diet, be prepared that it is going to be hard! A lot of their veg is also cooked in animal fat and a lot of their pastries contain animal fat too!

Meat: They really love their meat- especially if it still has a face or feet. Expect bones. They feckin love them. 

Long hair, beautiful women and huge feet: All the woman seem to be about 6 foot tall, tanned, thin and have flowing locks. They also have massive feet. On my quest to find a pair of shoes today, the only sizes that I could find were 40s or 41s and I'm a 38. FAIL. 

Laser Hair Removal: They do it everywhere! I'm pretty sure you could have it done in the bars if you were really desperate. 

PDAs: Public Displays of Affection- perhaps that's just jealousy talking. 

Smoking: Even the children smoke!

Bidets: I'm of the opinion that whatever you want to do in your own home, you're more than welcome to do it. However, on a trip to the public bathroom in the college library the other day I came across this beside the sinks. 

Sure who needs privacy when you're having an auld scrub? I'm pretty sure the bars are to make sure that no one falls in and gets lost.

Taking their time: I've never seen a less motivated race of people when it comes to bureaucracy. I've spent two of the last three weeks queuing. 

Hand gestures: Don't stand too close to a Spaniard who is telling a story or you might just get a smack. 

Shouting: Sure why talk when you can shout? I'm pretty sure that everyone on the Metro wants to hear about your aunt's verrucas. It's not like I'm trying to have my own conversation or anything!

God: I don't know if it's religiousness or laziness but the city shuts down on a Sunday. God forbid you're gagging for a cuppa scald and you run out of (crap) milk!

Cola Cao: I mean really, who goes to the pub and orders a glass of chocolate milk? The Madrileños apparently. 

Bank charges: I think I'm getting charged every time I walk past the bank on the corner.

LIST TIME!

I had a bit of a rough day today- realised that this isn't a holiday anymore and that I won't be going home until Christmas.


98 days
2359 hours
141568 minutes
8494130 seconds


To take my mind off of the people that I'm missing (had a bit of an auld Skry- Skype cry- with them earlier) I decided to make a list of all the material things that I miss about home. 

Things I miss about home




Tea- I'm getting used to the fact that it is impossible to get a daycent cup of scald in this country. Mammy Feaheny came to my rescue though by sending us enough teabags to last the year. *Yay* However, we are still missing a crucial ingredient- fresh, low fat milk. We can get full-fat fresh milk or UHT low-fat milk. They're just not the same. 

Fake tan-I've come to realise that I am officially the palest person in this whole country. No joke. At home I could get around that by Sally-Hansening up. Here however, it's a whole different kettle of jamón. My upper half is grand- but my legs look like I've got a touch of albinism. I went to buy tan yesterday, searched half of the city and eventually found a bottle- let's just say bar work isn't going to cover the cost of it. 
Looks like I'll be going pale. 

Facewash- refer to previous blog.


A strong Irish accent- never have I wanted to hear the word 'quare' so badly. 


Knowing what is on my plate- In Spain, a filete isn't a fillet. Nothing is as it seems. When you think you're ordering calamari, you might actually be ordering baby octopus (which actually isn't as bad as it sounds. If it wasn't for the little voice in my head screaming, "You're eating a baby octopus!" then I might have actually been able to finish them.)

A slight breeze- apparently they don't have these in Spain. 

Eavesdropping- it's impossible at best when you have no idea what the person is saying. 

Heels- no one wears heels. If you see a person in heels, they're probably old and have cankles and their heels are probably an inch at best. They have loads of them in the shops but I seem to be the only person wearing them. 

An hourly wage rate- I just got a job in an Irish bar. When I was asked how much I'd be making, I was told that if I was working full-time (I'll be working about 20 hours) then I'd get between €900 and €1000 per month and that my tips would work out at roughly €75-100. I have no idea how much money I'm going to be earning. Budgeting is a bitch. 

The third pin on plugs- I'm always terrified in case I electrocute myself when I'm plugging things in or out. 

Nash's red lemonade- I don't even drink it that much at home but it's a comfort knowing it's there if I ever get a craving for it. 

Regular pillows- I don't understand Spanish pillows. I have a double bed and I can only buy a single, long pillow for it. I'm the kind of person who cuddles one pillow and lies on the other one- so I need two regular pillows. When you're sharing a bed with another person who does the same thing, things get a little techy. Who gets the pillow? 

Duvets- obviously when it's too warm to sleep, I don't need a duvet. That's a good thing though, because I don't even have the option to buy one! All I can buy are sheets or throws. I just want a duvet. 

People that don't spit all the time- Even on the metro. 

Television- obviously Madrid has televisions, but ours doesn't work. The landlord was going to get a technician over to have a look at it but I told him not to bother- I wouldn't be able to understand it anyway. Obviously I can catch up with programmes like Trollied on the laptop, but it just isn't the same. 

My doggy- I love my little Toto but she just wouldn't fit in over here. Literally. The only dogs that we've seen can fit into handbags- and not my kind of handbag that is so big that you develop back pains from carrying it around, but little teeny handbags. People also seem to colour coordinate their dogs. And, they are ALL purebred! I'm dying to see a mongrel!

Last but definitely not least... I said the blog was supposed to be about to be about material things to take my mind off everything else, but I miss my Jack, my mammy, my daddy, my Jessie, my Paula, my Dre-Dre, my Emzy, my Colin and everyone else who keeps me sane!

The city that never sleeps? I'm going to bed.

Friday came, bringing with it not only the weekend, but also an impromptu bank holiday (which fell on a Friday and was only announced less than two weeks ago!) which meant only one thing- it was time to party.

We started off our night by popping into a shop and buying a litre of beer for €1.50. A promising start!

We headed to a friends house and from there to another apartment where drinks were had (not quite enough though) and Kings was played- rules such as no names, no gesturing to the person whose attention you wanted, and no speaking in English, only Spanish. 

At about 2 we decided to head out. We got a taxi as far as Pacha, which is supposed to be one of the more exclusive nightclubs in the city. (It's also the Bulgarian term for whore- just saying.) It cost €16 to get in and once inside, drinks were €12 and a glass of water was €9. Us ladies managed to get in for free but the lads had to pay full whack- except Alan who was barred as he was wearing a t-shirt. Once inside, the music was so-so and the place was half empty. Outside the valets were kept busy parking the Mercs and Bentleys driven by the pijos. 

Case study 1: El pijo. Take note of the sweater casually swung around the shoulders. This is purely for adornment and shall never be work, for fear of creasing the wool. Also, it's 30° out. Cop on.

Take note also of the smarmy I'm-so-much-better-than-you expression and the side parting in the hair. All are crucial.

After about 10 minutes, we thought feic this and left. 

We wandered the streets for a while until we got to a cute little club, Café La Palma. The music was good, the drinks were cheap, they also served ice cream and the little couches were like sitting on the floor- love it. 

One of the girls was talking to a guy who claimed to be a friend of the DJ and they asked us to come to an after party. As we were outside with them watching him rolling a joint, we realised he was Charlie-Sheened off his head and was chewing the face off himself. 

Turns out he didn't know the DJ at all. We gave the party a skip and did a runner. 

After that we did some more wandering. At this stage Yasmin's feet had given up on my high shoes so she was wandering around the streets barefoot.  

Braver woman than I am!

I honestly think we were the only people in the entire city wearing heels. 

From there we headed to Gran Caiman which is a Latin American club near San Bernado. Free entry, cheap drinks, great music, South Americans.... and a female strip show. All you could ask for really. 

                                                                                                                                                                   

Her daddy must be so proud

  

While there, I got chatting to a guy who actually used the line (in Spanish):

"What are four lovely Irish girls like you doing in a Latino club like this?"

I mean, really??? Come on! 

After chatting with this guy, I went back to the girls and we stood by the bar having a drink. In this time about 4 men, all old enough to be my father, started cracking on to me. I don't know if it's the pasty skin or the inability to dance but there was something that was drawing them over! 

They all looked a bit like this guy though, so it just didn't do it for me. 

As we were leaving I was approached by a guy selling roses. He tried to give me one and I got into an argument and told him that I didn't want one, that I didn't have any money and that I wasn't buying one. He insisted on giving it to me as a present and then ran away so I couldn't give it back to him.

I'm still trying to figure out what the catch is...

We left the club at 6am and headed back to Ruby's where we crashed on the couch for a few hours- before beginning the walk of shame home on the metro- where again, we were the only ones wearing heels (or at least I was, Yas gave up on them again!)

Friday night helped me to realise why the whole country shuts down on a Sunday (I couldn't even go to LIDL today)- the whole city is hungover. No doubt. 

Do madrileños wash their faces?

Upon our arrival to Madrid, an arduous quest was thrust upon Yasmin and I. It would involve long hours, conversing with many natives, we would need to become entirely aware of our surroundings and we would need strong, willing hearts to survive.

The quest which we have undertaken is to not be taken lightly- as we seek a facewash.

Since we arrived, we have spent hours looking for something that we can wash our faces with. We have tried farmacías (which by the way, only sell drugs- a Boots wouldn't go astray), perfumerías, supermercados, droguerías, little Chinese shops and even Lidl.

We cannot buy facewash anywhere. The only one that we've found is a Clearasil one- which I can't use because it strips the skin from my face so I'm just left with a gaping black hole where my face should be.

Last night I decided to make my own wash and threw a little something together with mint, olive oil, lemon juice, sugar and a pinch of salt. My skin feels lovely and dewy.

The homemade face wash will last a while, so that's part of our problem taken care of.

However, it still begs the question, do Spaniards wash their faces? And if so, what the hell do they use???






This is what happens when you don't have facewash.

Girl, Abroad (Cailín=girl=chica)

Here I am in Madrid.

I'd like to say a big hello to my mammy (Hi Mammy!) who I know is watching/ reading/ listening.

I have to be one of the most unprepared people in the world. I moved over to Spain last week with Jack, my boyfriend (who went back home last night- I've just about stopped whinging). When we arrived, I booked us into the lovely Hostal Jemasaca for three nights. Why three nights you ask? Because I was sure that I would have somewhere to live by then!

Sure we mightn't even need the third night, says I!

About an hour before we headed to the airport, daddy pointed out that the maximum weight allowed with AerLingus (20 kilos) was per passenger, not per bag. Damn. I had managed to reduce my years of hoarding to fit into two 20 kilo bags (and a massive piece of hand luggage.) Back online I went and had to pay for ANOTHER suitcase- this time in Jack's name since he travels like a normal person and only needs one piece of hand luggage- this I will never understand. 

*Insert montage here: packing- driving- airport- crying- crying- goodbyeing- crying- crying- sleeping- flying- clouds- sleeping- metroing- getting lost- taxiing- hosteling- sleeping*

That evening we headed for a bite to eat. Although I'm fairly confident with the Spanish language, I had never accounted for the menus. I couldn't understand a word they said. In the end we managed to find something. It was awful. Bleh. If you don't like your food to look at you while you're eating it, then don't order fish in Spain. 

The next few days were spent wandering and desperately seeking an apartment for myself and Yasmin close enough to the college that we weren't over an hour away. Sounds relatively. It wasn't. 

The first apartment that we went to see was advertised as a 2 bed apartment for €700 a month. The man that I rang had a speech impediment and I had a hard time understanding him. In the end I had to ask the reception-lady in the hostel to ring him and ask for directions. He told her that he was doubtful about renting to me because I didn't understand any Spanish. The reception-lady had a big argument with him saying that I had been talking to her in Spanish everyday and that she could understand me perfectly. The man with the speech impediment was a bit of an auld confidence beater. 

We turned up to the apartment (which was awful- I didn't think damp existed in Spain in August) and he showed us around. I noticed that there were 4 bedrooms and asked if his price was right at €700. At this point he proceeded to repeatedly shout "MIL! MIL! MIL!" (which means a thousand). When I asked him why he had advertised it as a 2 bedroom apartment for €700 instead of a 4 bedroom apartment for €1700, his reply was that the advert had brought me to the apartment. 

Freaky man.

That evening we went to see another apartment- it was perfect. I told the woman that we'd take it and went to hand her a wad of cash. She told me that once all of the papers were in order that it was ours. 

D'oh.

Damn Spanish papers. She insisted on seeing my Informe de Vida Laboral. When I told her that we didn't have such a thing in Ireland, she refused to rent to us! I had the money, I had proof that we could afford the apartment, I had everything that we needed- except this bloody piece of paper. 

We went to see another apartment the next day- same story. I rang the Irish embassy and eventually got through to someone (they love their siestas as much as the Spaniards). She was the most useless person that I have ever spoken to in my life. When I explained my situation, her only advice was to try another apartment. It was lovely to speak to someone with an Irish accent though! 

Eventually, myself and Yas decided to rent individual rooms instead of an apartment- this was on day 5 (after we had been moved from our lovely room in the hostel to the 'Standard' room- apparently the standard room doesn't include a pillow...) 

After seeing more kips, we eventually found our little home. The minute we saw it, we knew this was it. Not only am I renting a room in an awesome apartment, I'm also renting little grandparents who hug me and bring me presents everytime that they come to the apartment. 

Best landlords ever. 

I mean seriously, they called yesterday when we were out to show someone the extra room, and they had bought us new cups and saucers because I had told them that we loved tea. 

Speaking of tea, can anyone post me some Barry's? I'm gagging for a daycent cuppa scald. 

And some rashers and sausages. Nom nom.

Blogspot asked me to tell the story of the frog in the wig- so here it is!

Once upon a time there was a bald frog. He lived a miserable existence as all of the other frogs used to laugh at him as they would comb their glossy locks and sing by the edge of a pool.
One day as he looked into the pool he asked the great frog in the sky, "Why me?" His question went unanswered. For many weeks he pondered this question. As he was pondering, he was unaware that a ginormous building was being erected next to the pool.
The frog was so desperate to be accepted that his pondering set him to work on fashioning a wig from old hairs that the other frogs left behind. Eventually his masterpiece was finished- as was the factory.
For a day he showed off his lustful mane to the other frogs who oohed and aahed. He was finally seen as one of the cool kids.
That night however, the factory's waste disposal programme suffered a melt-down and vats of Veet Hair Removal Cream poured into the lake. All of the frogs were killed instantly and their locks were dissolved (within the 10 minutes stated on the instruction leaflet. Never leave the product for longer that 10 minutes- always time it with a watch).The moral of this story is that no matter how hard you long for something, even if you work hard to get it, you will still go bald and die.