apologies again for the tardiness of this update. i love writing this blog but somehow i never get round to it. there's much to say and with only THREE WEEKS left in consti i've got to get some of my comtemplative musings in here somewhere too...
i should start with soph's visit way back at the end of march. soph was an absolute hit in consti; she was nearly kidnapped at one point. you know that fashion rule of 'legs or baps: not both' - well soph boldy resists this rule: and why not, i've you've got it, flaunt it etc - except when in constantina, here you should cover up like mother superior unless you want to be hissed at/dribbled on/followed home. so off we went one night for a casual spot of tapas and a plump 40 something slithered his way across the bar and bought us cervezas before even speaking to us (this is always a bad sign, they don't even give you a chance to skedaddle). it was the same old pervy chit-chat - 'where's your boyfriend?', 'what are two pwitty girls like you doing alone in a bar in consti?', 'do you want to come to the beach with me for the weekend?'. to be far that last line was a bit forward even by goatville's standards but he dropped it in there anyway. we paid him minimal attention but he was quite persistent...and oh dear, i needed the loo, what to do?! get soph to come with me and fulfil all his wildest girl on girl fantasies (but at least she'd be safe) or leave her at the bar and just take the world's quickest ever whazz. i chose the latter but turns out i wasn't quick enough: i returned to the bar to find soph about to groped, have her earlobes licked and looking positively scared. as i took my seat again at the bar he calmed himself, we told him to dick off and that we had no interest in greasy spaniards muchas gracias...didn't stop him from buying another round and trying the licky lobe treatment with me. we waited in the bar until we were sure he'd gone, turned out he was lurking outside in his car so we asked the friendly barman if he was dodgy (he clearly was). the barman's response, 'no, he's just a LAD'.
poor soph, she made it back to england a couple of days later with violent sunstroke. it could have been A LOT worse.
then along came fizz...also famous in these parts and quite chummy with the local policia too. on fizz's first morning i thought i'd take her up to la capitana which is the highest peak in the province. it's about 50km from consti (what isn't?!) and involves a challenging drive up a mountain track which tests tinker's offroad abilities (verdict - nil). so we set off with some satsumas and a bottle of water: naturally as we're just going for a mini day trip i don't pack my pissing passport, driving licence and car registration certificate because i wasn't going to need them, was i? oooh, but of course i will because it's speeeen and the policia have zilchio better to do than stop me and demand documents. at least this time i'm not drunk, definite improvement. 'documentacion senyorita', barks the charming gendarme. i get out the trusty aa roadside assistance printout and last decade's tesco car insurance (which is my brother's incidentally)...he's not standing for this shit. 'identificacion senyorita' - uh oh, didn't even bring me purse with me. oooh i know i'll whip out my debit card, this is the debit card that only works at the bank in constantina and has'youth project ages 13 to 18' splashed all over it. unsurprisingly that didn't work either. he sent me back to consti to get mis documentos which was a good hour round trip. he asked me if i'd learnt my lesson - i replied that yes i had and was let off any fines. he even shook my hand and gave me a little spanish smile. i was touched.
fizz and i didn't stay long in consti, having dabbled in some nightlife and had lukewarm whiskey & apple sour's shots bought for us we decided we had bigger pescados to fry so we hit the costa (not del sol i might add). we had a wander, ogled over the world's most beautiful fishmonger in cadiz's fish market (all manner of witticisms i could add here but i won't) then headed to the playaaa. here we continued to perv on men, the lens on fizz's superduper camera was quite handy here. we returned to our smelly hostel, full of nutters to get ready for our BIG night out. we started off with miniature bottles of sherry which tasted like piss and acid then left the hostel and settled on a park bench with a bottle of rioja. classy. here we met some charming local chaps who took us to the bestest bars in town. to cut a long story short, issy got with a chav and i got with someone born in the 90's and we had to run away...except because i was utterly sloshed i insisted that i knew the way and led us down a dead-end street. the chav and the child followed and we had a fair bit of explaining to do...no way as smooth as i'd envisaged.
more to follow...
Friday, 6 May 2011
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
hola from pillage village - more encounters with the policia and local deviants
another long overdue update which i may have to condense into several posts so that it's not overly tangential.
firstly, jen's visit is worth a mention...she's now famous constantina-wide, i wouldn't be surprised if she overtook the village virgin in the popularity stakes (who by the way is considered the bee's knees around here, they talk about her so avidly that i thought she was a real person). so jen and i decided to go to the 'posh' tapas bar in cazalla de la sierra, a town about half an hour away up a twisty mountain road (read hairpin bends & sheer cliffs sans barriers, land rover advert style). we had a super evening, chowed down on the finest local fayre & quaffed some nommy rioja with the locals...in the spirit of things we had a few tipples each & finished the soiree with some syrupy cherry licquor. having exhausted cazalla's nightlife we headed back to goatville - with all this hooch inside us everything became doubly as funny as before...that was until the police pulled us over on the aforesaid mountain road about 1km outside of consti. jen shits herself because they have guns. i shit myself because i'm about to lose my driving license and will therefore die a slow and painful tedium induced death in constantina between now & the end of may.
not only am i imbibed (which even here is illegal) i also have no registration plate. holy bread - it wasn't looking hopeful. i should mention at this point that i have a regular recurring nightmare here that i lose my car/driving licence. sometimes it's through drink driving, sometimes i park it and never find it again - either way i wake up startled (vow to never drink drive) & normally a shit day ensues. also worth pointing out that although legally i shouldn't be driving, neither am i chunderlicious at the wheel.
so they ask for 'documentacion' - i whip my aa roadside assistance email confirmation and tesco car insurance(from 2009). what they wanted to see was my passport - another must have for driving in spain. did i have my passport on me? nahh. were they impressed? nahh. have they just realised i don't have a registration plate? yes. am i insanely grateful that i have a flowing tongue and that most spanish men are pervs? yes indeedy.
i hop out of the coche to explain the situ and retreive the new registration plate from the boot just to prove that i DID make a 4000 mile round trip to go and get a new one. casually mention this to the police officers in the hope that they might take pity on me. not working so far... however my spanish rolls off my tongue and i engage in some light-hearted 'banter' with the policia and they begin to warm to me. jen's bright blonde locks may have played a part in this too - she sat good naturedly in the front seat throughout the ordeal, more worried about their pistols than my erasmus year going tits up due to lack of transport. unusually for the spanish they aren't invading my personal space so they don't catch a whiff of the grapes on my breath. there's also no mention of a breathiliser yet...this is going quite well i am still however shaking in my boots so decide to cut to the chase - so i ask them exactly what they're doing here (on this cold, dark, lonely night - empathize with your audience etc)and why they're stopping cars...turns out they're collating statistics (naturally, at 1am on a mountain track) and we're just part of a survey. thank GAHHHD. they tell me i'm free to go, to screw on my registration plate as soon as possible and about a nice tapas bar in their village if i was ever passing through.
trauma over!
or so we thought...
a little shaken (and still shaking) post policia episode we decide a g&t is in order to soothe ourselves so we pop into the pirate pub. most of the punters are men but that's no worry as we sink the first 2euro triple...until one comes over to get to know us. mid 40's, chubby, lashed, pretty creepy. would we like to join him and his friends? we politely declined. he insisted. we gave in. bad move. in fact going out at all that evening was a bad move... to cut a long and verbose story short we were hounded by men all evening (and not in a good 'woo!go me!i've still got it' way. more in a 'don't touch me you're vile' way). until it got to the point (around 5am) where we had to decide whether it was safer to stay or cut and run. we decided on the latter, made a speedy exit without bidding farewell to our numerous pervy followers and hit the road. however three particular individuals (who were quite possibly on day release) followed us out into the street and offered us a lift home...erm no, no gracias, we'll be fine. and off we headed thinking they'd gone back inside. instead they'd jumped in their car and were following us down the road honking their horn. it was when they started bottling us that we took flight... mild exaggeration but there definitely was some glass being thrown and smashing - i can only assume it was at us. we took refuge behind a defender a few hundred metres away and along came their car, slowing down to snail pace along side the defender so we assume they've seen us. eeek. holy bread - round 2. somehow they didn't spot us and thankfully drove on and we returned safely home about 10 minutes later and comfort ate a lemon drizzle loaf tin in about 2 minutes flat.
needless to say every time i see a black seat (as in the car not just a dark coloured chair) i become slightly unhinged and sweat a little.
i've learnt my lesson - i will never drive juiced EVER AGAIN. i will also never go to the pirate pub ever again especially not with a golden-haired beauty such as jen (whose visit by the way was thoroughly enjoyable and wholly unforgettable).
xx
firstly, jen's visit is worth a mention...she's now famous constantina-wide, i wouldn't be surprised if she overtook the village virgin in the popularity stakes (who by the way is considered the bee's knees around here, they talk about her so avidly that i thought she was a real person). so jen and i decided to go to the 'posh' tapas bar in cazalla de la sierra, a town about half an hour away up a twisty mountain road (read hairpin bends & sheer cliffs sans barriers, land rover advert style). we had a super evening, chowed down on the finest local fayre & quaffed some nommy rioja with the locals...in the spirit of things we had a few tipples each & finished the soiree with some syrupy cherry licquor. having exhausted cazalla's nightlife we headed back to goatville - with all this hooch inside us everything became doubly as funny as before...that was until the police pulled us over on the aforesaid mountain road about 1km outside of consti. jen shits herself because they have guns. i shit myself because i'm about to lose my driving license and will therefore die a slow and painful tedium induced death in constantina between now & the end of may.
not only am i imbibed (which even here is illegal) i also have no registration plate. holy bread - it wasn't looking hopeful. i should mention at this point that i have a regular recurring nightmare here that i lose my car/driving licence. sometimes it's through drink driving, sometimes i park it and never find it again - either way i wake up startled (vow to never drink drive) & normally a shit day ensues. also worth pointing out that although legally i shouldn't be driving, neither am i chunderlicious at the wheel.
so they ask for 'documentacion' - i whip my aa roadside assistance email confirmation and tesco car insurance(from 2009). what they wanted to see was my passport - another must have for driving in spain. did i have my passport on me? nahh. were they impressed? nahh. have they just realised i don't have a registration plate? yes. am i insanely grateful that i have a flowing tongue and that most spanish men are pervs? yes indeedy.
i hop out of the coche to explain the situ and retreive the new registration plate from the boot just to prove that i DID make a 4000 mile round trip to go and get a new one. casually mention this to the police officers in the hope that they might take pity on me. not working so far... however my spanish rolls off my tongue and i engage in some light-hearted 'banter' with the policia and they begin to warm to me. jen's bright blonde locks may have played a part in this too - she sat good naturedly in the front seat throughout the ordeal, more worried about their pistols than my erasmus year going tits up due to lack of transport. unusually for the spanish they aren't invading my personal space so they don't catch a whiff of the grapes on my breath. there's also no mention of a breathiliser yet...this is going quite well i am still however shaking in my boots so decide to cut to the chase - so i ask them exactly what they're doing here (on this cold, dark, lonely night - empathize with your audience etc)and why they're stopping cars...turns out they're collating statistics (naturally, at 1am on a mountain track) and we're just part of a survey. thank GAHHHD. they tell me i'm free to go, to screw on my registration plate as soon as possible and about a nice tapas bar in their village if i was ever passing through.
trauma over!
or so we thought...
a little shaken (and still shaking) post policia episode we decide a g&t is in order to soothe ourselves so we pop into the pirate pub. most of the punters are men but that's no worry as we sink the first 2euro triple...until one comes over to get to know us. mid 40's, chubby, lashed, pretty creepy. would we like to join him and his friends? we politely declined. he insisted. we gave in. bad move. in fact going out at all that evening was a bad move... to cut a long and verbose story short we were hounded by men all evening (and not in a good 'woo!go me!i've still got it' way. more in a 'don't touch me you're vile' way). until it got to the point (around 5am) where we had to decide whether it was safer to stay or cut and run. we decided on the latter, made a speedy exit without bidding farewell to our numerous pervy followers and hit the road. however three particular individuals (who were quite possibly on day release) followed us out into the street and offered us a lift home...erm no, no gracias, we'll be fine. and off we headed thinking they'd gone back inside. instead they'd jumped in their car and were following us down the road honking their horn. it was when they started bottling us that we took flight... mild exaggeration but there definitely was some glass being thrown and smashing - i can only assume it was at us. we took refuge behind a defender a few hundred metres away and along came their car, slowing down to snail pace along side the defender so we assume they've seen us. eeek. holy bread - round 2. somehow they didn't spot us and thankfully drove on and we returned safely home about 10 minutes later and comfort ate a lemon drizzle loaf tin in about 2 minutes flat.
needless to say every time i see a black seat (as in the car not just a dark coloured chair) i become slightly unhinged and sweat a little.
i've learnt my lesson - i will never drive juiced EVER AGAIN. i will also never go to the pirate pub ever again especially not with a golden-haired beauty such as jen (whose visit by the way was thoroughly enjoyable and wholly unforgettable).
xx
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
pig cheese, cowface stew & fried mackerel jizz...no, it's not bolivia, this is SPAIN
technically it wasn't mackerel jizz, it was mackerel eggs, pretty filthy all the same and hopefully the title enticed a few more readers...
so my wonderful amigas Harriet & Georgina visited at the beginning of February and a absolute 'scream' was had by all. they tore up constantina! shocked the villagers with their minimini skirts, flowers in their hair and uber glam sunnies (not george's though, they were pretty below par even by constantina standards). they enjoyed the sunny mountain hikes, the spicy sausage and the 3 euro 'g without much t' triples...unfortunately the local tapas fayre didn't go down quite so smoothly but was the aforementionned combination ever really a good idea?
pig cheese isn't what it sounds like...it's worse. it's not cheese at all, it's not even dairy related - it's quite simply the meatiest bits of the pigs face all mushed together and set in a jelly mould (the fat binds the mixture together), slathered on bread. as vile as it sounds. the aftertaste lingers in your nostrils and trap for days.
cowface stew is a little more self-explanatory, it's the cows cheeks stewed for a good week or two with tomato, onion and garlic (surprise surprise)... served with soggy chips. bleurgh.
then there was the mackerel jizz (or eggs - but jizz if you're looking to increase your readership)...hellishly bitter, earwaxy in texture (and probably flavour too but i wasn't that kind of child)...not even drowning it in hellman's could save it.
needless to say the next day we were violently ill and didn't make it to sevilla for chunder & lash...
i'm getting more and more into the local cuisine - i foolishly mentionned to my neighbours that for the month of January i would be dieting in order to lose my christmas food baby (i named him Waitrose) - the moment you say 'diet' to a Spaniard they immediately fry you some food, it's like a reflex reaction. So i've been eating catfish (fried, naturally) with my neighbours a lot recently and then they show me their semi-precious stone collection after dindins. They set a chorizo on fire for my benefit this evening - drenched it in what i'm pretty sure was surgical spirit then lit it - to be fair it was scrumptious (pretty fancy for a Tuesday night though i reckon).
anyway H & G's visit was much appreciated and more of you should do the same.
next post will be divulging details of Jen's visit, how I nearly lost my driving licence, how we nearly got bottled, raped & pillaged and all about our glitter & custard fight.
thanks for reading xx
so my wonderful amigas Harriet & Georgina visited at the beginning of February and a absolute 'scream' was had by all. they tore up constantina! shocked the villagers with their minimini skirts, flowers in their hair and uber glam sunnies (not george's though, they were pretty below par even by constantina standards). they enjoyed the sunny mountain hikes, the spicy sausage and the 3 euro 'g without much t' triples...unfortunately the local tapas fayre didn't go down quite so smoothly but was the aforementionned combination ever really a good idea?
pig cheese isn't what it sounds like...it's worse. it's not cheese at all, it's not even dairy related - it's quite simply the meatiest bits of the pigs face all mushed together and set in a jelly mould (the fat binds the mixture together), slathered on bread. as vile as it sounds. the aftertaste lingers in your nostrils and trap for days.
cowface stew is a little more self-explanatory, it's the cows cheeks stewed for a good week or two with tomato, onion and garlic (surprise surprise)... served with soggy chips. bleurgh.
then there was the mackerel jizz (or eggs - but jizz if you're looking to increase your readership)...hellishly bitter, earwaxy in texture (and probably flavour too but i wasn't that kind of child)...not even drowning it in hellman's could save it.
needless to say the next day we were violently ill and didn't make it to sevilla for chunder & lash...
i'm getting more and more into the local cuisine - i foolishly mentionned to my neighbours that for the month of January i would be dieting in order to lose my christmas food baby (i named him Waitrose) - the moment you say 'diet' to a Spaniard they immediately fry you some food, it's like a reflex reaction. So i've been eating catfish (fried, naturally) with my neighbours a lot recently and then they show me their semi-precious stone collection after dindins. They set a chorizo on fire for my benefit this evening - drenched it in what i'm pretty sure was surgical spirit then lit it - to be fair it was scrumptious (pretty fancy for a Tuesday night though i reckon).
anyway H & G's visit was much appreciated and more of you should do the same.
next post will be divulging details of Jen's visit, how I nearly lost my driving licence, how we nearly got bottled, raped & pillaged and all about our glitter & custard fight.
thanks for reading xx
constantine petty crime
off i skipped to sevilla one saturday morning to go rowing and i got to my car which was parked just up the street from my flat and found poor little tink sans numberplate. at first i thought it was quite funny (no idea why) then i realised that actually it wasn't in the slightest bit entertaining - not only was my numberplate a legal driving requirement it was also yellow - are spanish numberplates yellow? no, they're not. they're white. it clearly was going to be more than just a case of nipping down to halfordios for a 'while-u-wait' new one. in fact it involved a morning spent in the police station (putting my a-level 'crime' vocabulary into use at last), numerous scary run-ins with the policia on dark nights on mountain roads and travelling nearly 2000 miles to get a new one(with ryanair i might add, so effectively it was 5000 miles because of the suffering). it also meant that the weekend on which the plate was stolen (note: police station closed until monday morning) i was basically imprisoned in constantina for an ENTIRE WEEKEND as everyone told me that driving around without one was too dodge. anyway, a long weekend in england later (it wasn't all bad - i found time for topshop, waitrose and socializing)...issue resolved, new numberplate firmly fixed gracias a grandad (he went a bit nuts with the drill though and the new numberplate looks like it has been shot at a few times - gangster scars). so some constantine delinquent has 'NA55 GUF' hanging on their bedroom wall and i'm £100 down but ryanair YET AGAIN is the winner out of all this...
Friday, 14 January 2011
more thrills & spills from constantlyboringtina
i've surprised myself here by actually returning to constantina after the christmas hols but since i've been back it really hasn't been that bad. for a start it's t-shirt weather and secondly i've spent 6 euros all week. however there is more to life than a tan and being minted (albeit malnourished and hungry)...and this is what constantina just can't offer - not consistently anyway. i did however have a couple of chuckles to myself this week...
my first day back was a sunday - i try and avoid spending any time awake in constantina on a sunday namely because it is depressingly boring. so thankfully my neighbours (the spanish grandmama and grandpapa) invited me for a rock on their rocking chair, spicy sausage and a chat...pre-lunch, around 3pm, spanish styleee. i left at 5pm pretty smashed - they forced a lot of 'mosto' down me - 'mosto' thankfully doesn't exist in the uk. it is the gnarly raw-tasting juice of the first grapes of the season, you can pick up a 2 litre bottle for 3 euros. bazzargain. best avoided if you want to function the next day. they also made me eat every variable of pig meat they had in the house - telling me it was all leftovers from christmas and that they were fed up with it so i could eat as much as i wanted (charming) - i suppose it was the spanish equivalent of someone pushing turkey curry on you on around january the 2nd - just not appealing. senora (spanish granny) is dieting so she was on non-alkie beer and shamelessly belching like a trooper. i really couldn't handle another glass of mosto so made excuses about cooking a chicken and left, they sent me off with a kilo of oranges and a diary from the andalucian council made of cork. they really are very kind and i'm lucky to have them around...apart from when they're talking excitedly (ie shouting) - if we were at home i'm pretty sure they'd both have asbo's for noise pollution by now.
my second amusing tale of the week and probably one of my top constantine moments so far was the other morning when i was driving through the 'moorish quarter' to my flat. i had just turned off the main road by the first traffic lights (there are 3 traffic lights in constantina and nearly everything can be described in relation to these spots)...i turned down the little side street that leads to the doughnut shop and there was a man ahead, laden with goods, striding along down the middle of the cobbled street. the pavements here are teeny and not worth using (unless you're a borrower in which case they're ample). he had 3 plastic bags full of tasty treats and some baguettes tucked under his arm. he heard my car coming up behind him (not at any great speed i might add) and briefly glanced over his shoulder to indicate that he was moving over towards the pavement...but he turned to look at where the steering wheel should've been and alas that side of the car was vacant. his eyes darted over to where i was sitting and this is where he started to lose control of his limbs...the shock kicked in and the baguettes crashed down and crumbled onto the cobbles. a bag of jam jars hit the road and their sticky, fruity content followed. i'm pretty sure there were some eggs involved too. as soon as he rescued one item from the cobbles another one fell... thankfully he was tickled by the mishap as much as i was. hemouthed 'it's your fault' to me rather friskily numerous times and eventually gathered his composure and most of his provisions (some were beyond repair), let me pass and continued on his little spanish way.
so all in all not a bad first week back. the convent kids are still disappointed that i don't have a spanish boyfriend or come to school by plane from england everyday but hey you can't please everyone. the adults (mainly the men) are intensely excited for the visit of two of my wonderful friends Georgina and Harriet in a few weeks time... in fact most of the town is eagerly awaiting their visit; a pub quiz and a spread (showcasing cucumber sarnies) at 'the pirate pub' is being organised in their honour and i wouldn't be surprised if they declare it a public holiday at this rate. juan pedro is especially excited, he forgot to breathe and quite possibly excreted some kind of bodily fluid when i mentionned that they're sisters.
thanks for reading.
until next time!
xxxx
my first day back was a sunday - i try and avoid spending any time awake in constantina on a sunday namely because it is depressingly boring. so thankfully my neighbours (the spanish grandmama and grandpapa) invited me for a rock on their rocking chair, spicy sausage and a chat...pre-lunch, around 3pm, spanish styleee. i left at 5pm pretty smashed - they forced a lot of 'mosto' down me - 'mosto' thankfully doesn't exist in the uk. it is the gnarly raw-tasting juice of the first grapes of the season, you can pick up a 2 litre bottle for 3 euros. bazzargain. best avoided if you want to function the next day. they also made me eat every variable of pig meat they had in the house - telling me it was all leftovers from christmas and that they were fed up with it so i could eat as much as i wanted (charming) - i suppose it was the spanish equivalent of someone pushing turkey curry on you on around january the 2nd - just not appealing. senora (spanish granny) is dieting so she was on non-alkie beer and shamelessly belching like a trooper. i really couldn't handle another glass of mosto so made excuses about cooking a chicken and left, they sent me off with a kilo of oranges and a diary from the andalucian council made of cork. they really are very kind and i'm lucky to have them around...apart from when they're talking excitedly (ie shouting) - if we were at home i'm pretty sure they'd both have asbo's for noise pollution by now.
my second amusing tale of the week and probably one of my top constantine moments so far was the other morning when i was driving through the 'moorish quarter' to my flat. i had just turned off the main road by the first traffic lights (there are 3 traffic lights in constantina and nearly everything can be described in relation to these spots)...i turned down the little side street that leads to the doughnut shop and there was a man ahead, laden with goods, striding along down the middle of the cobbled street. the pavements here are teeny and not worth using (unless you're a borrower in which case they're ample). he had 3 plastic bags full of tasty treats and some baguettes tucked under his arm. he heard my car coming up behind him (not at any great speed i might add) and briefly glanced over his shoulder to indicate that he was moving over towards the pavement...but he turned to look at where the steering wheel should've been and alas that side of the car was vacant. his eyes darted over to where i was sitting and this is where he started to lose control of his limbs...the shock kicked in and the baguettes crashed down and crumbled onto the cobbles. a bag of jam jars hit the road and their sticky, fruity content followed. i'm pretty sure there were some eggs involved too. as soon as he rescued one item from the cobbles another one fell... thankfully he was tickled by the mishap as much as i was. hemouthed 'it's your fault' to me rather friskily numerous times and eventually gathered his composure and most of his provisions (some were beyond repair), let me pass and continued on his little spanish way.
so all in all not a bad first week back. the convent kids are still disappointed that i don't have a spanish boyfriend or come to school by plane from england everyday but hey you can't please everyone. the adults (mainly the men) are intensely excited for the visit of two of my wonderful friends Georgina and Harriet in a few weeks time... in fact most of the town is eagerly awaiting their visit; a pub quiz and a spread (showcasing cucumber sarnies) at 'the pirate pub' is being organised in their honour and i wouldn't be surprised if they declare it a public holiday at this rate. juan pedro is especially excited, he forgot to breathe and quite possibly excreted some kind of bodily fluid when i mentionned that they're sisters.
thanks for reading.
until next time!
xxxx
Sunday, 12 December 2010
who's your daddy? whaaaat??!!
hola a todos,
haven't written recently - largely due to the fact that NADA has happened. i think constantina tedium has hit an all time high. but i hope and like to think that what this blog lacks in larks and worldwide adventure it makes up for in entertainment (ie you chortle at my expense and count ya lucky stars it isn't you).
so the other morning there was a knock at my door, around midday which is postlady o'clock so i skipped down my stairs thinking topshop.com had arrived (it often does, fiver for international delivery, frankly it'd be rude not to). instead there was a well guapo hombre (rugged farmer type) at my door...bingo i think, things are picking up! and so he yells (they all yell):
'ORAAANGES!!!! THE ORAAANGES ARE REALLLLLY GOOD'
...errr ok - 'and?'
'HAVE YOU TRIED THE ORANGES FROM THE COUNTRYSIDE?? THEY'RE REALLLLLY GOOD.' (oranges are in season and dropping left, right & centre)
'AND DADDY? WHAT ABOUT DADDY?' - he points at the door where my spanish grandparents live - 'ARE THEY IN?'
'no, they're out' (i know, shock horror, that was the third time they hadn't been in since the end of september)
so i put two and two together (turns out it didn't equal four in this case) and come up with an explanation - my spanish grandpapa gives me fruit and veg ALL the time and the other day he gave me oranges soooo this must be his son asking how the oranges were whilst simultaneously looking for his Dad. It didn't occur to me why he was shouting (because the Spanish generally do shout, no excuses needed) and that he was ridiculously hot (and sorry to say it but my Spanish grandparents are a bit hobbity looking). So he goes on yelling about the oranges and Daddy and I tell him that yes the oranges his Dad gave me were delicious, muchas gracias and should I tell them he was looking for them? The shouting stops, he realises i'm foreign (giggles to himself) and that i have entirely miscomprehended the last two minutes of my life...and the centimo drops...he is a fruit and veg seller (recurring theme it would seem) and a papa is a potato...Papá (note the accent) however, means Daddy. ooops. felt like a bit of a twat after that...having spent over a year of my life now (collectively) living in spanish speaking countries I would have thought my vocab would be a little more advanced.
i had a smashing little birthday party with my spayynish chums and mama was here too...we had a pizza party and they bought me a kettle (not widely available in shops) and a cookbook and i was truly touched. we huddled around the table duvet gas jobby as it was a chilly night, ate, drank and were merry. mumma and i necked a botella of bubbly before they arrived, i felt too sober. so it wasn't a wild night but they are bloody lovely and i am very grateful to work with them. then mumma and i scooted off to Jerez for the weekend, lured by the promise of tasty sherry and balmy summer nights. turns out it pissed it down with rain and sherry is actually pretty gnarly. we did however have a laaavely time, getting pummeled and brillo-padded (and semi-naked) at the hammam and eating REAL food with actual flavour (no Spain, salt and tomato does NOT count).
last weekend was another bank holiday, i had a whopping 6 days off this time...so i booked myself a ticket to Barcelocccca as i'd heard so many good tings. and good tings i found! a MONSTER h&m, zara etc etc, non-spanish food everywhere, cultura splashed about all over the place... just what i needed. went to some dead weird and pervy exhibitions and just generally had a swell time. even went OUT! left at around 4 when they put on robbie williams' 'rock dj' though, enough is enough. plus i was with a load of people that i didn't actually know - something i find a bit weird about backpacking etc. i prefer to go out with my friends. call me introverted. whatevs.
so, back to goat mountain for a one day working week- when i say 'day' i mean 3 hours (ooh the strain). so the gossip from constantina - either my neighbour over the back has developped Tourette's or someone with Tourette's has recently moved in. He yells 'Aaahhbaah, aaahhbaah, aaahhbaah, aaahhbaah, aaahhbaah' A LOT and then he yells the c-word, 'see you next tuesday' - get me? ouch. at least he doesn't use the most offensive word of all 'ostia'- that's 'holy bread' when it's at home, reserved only for very special situations. that's about the extent of the constantina goss to be honest.
anyway going home for christmas in only a few days, wippee! seriously thinking about moving to sevilla and driving up the mountain for work monday to thursday. it does mean the blog content would most likely be less entertaining BUT i've got my sanity to consider. watch this space...
gracias for reading.
xxxx
haven't written recently - largely due to the fact that NADA has happened. i think constantina tedium has hit an all time high. but i hope and like to think that what this blog lacks in larks and worldwide adventure it makes up for in entertainment (ie you chortle at my expense and count ya lucky stars it isn't you).
so the other morning there was a knock at my door, around midday which is postlady o'clock so i skipped down my stairs thinking topshop.com had arrived (it often does, fiver for international delivery, frankly it'd be rude not to). instead there was a well guapo hombre (rugged farmer type) at my door...bingo i think, things are picking up! and so he yells (they all yell):
'ORAAANGES!!!! THE ORAAANGES ARE REALLLLLY GOOD'
...errr ok - 'and?'
'HAVE YOU TRIED THE ORANGES FROM THE COUNTRYSIDE?? THEY'RE REALLLLLY GOOD.' (oranges are in season and dropping left, right & centre)
'AND DADDY? WHAT ABOUT DADDY?' - he points at the door where my spanish grandparents live - 'ARE THEY IN?'
'no, they're out' (i know, shock horror, that was the third time they hadn't been in since the end of september)
so i put two and two together (turns out it didn't equal four in this case) and come up with an explanation - my spanish grandpapa gives me fruit and veg ALL the time and the other day he gave me oranges soooo this must be his son asking how the oranges were whilst simultaneously looking for his Dad. It didn't occur to me why he was shouting (because the Spanish generally do shout, no excuses needed) and that he was ridiculously hot (and sorry to say it but my Spanish grandparents are a bit hobbity looking). So he goes on yelling about the oranges and Daddy and I tell him that yes the oranges his Dad gave me were delicious, muchas gracias and should I tell them he was looking for them? The shouting stops, he realises i'm foreign (giggles to himself) and that i have entirely miscomprehended the last two minutes of my life...and the centimo drops...he is a fruit and veg seller (recurring theme it would seem) and a papa is a potato...Papá (note the accent) however, means Daddy. ooops. felt like a bit of a twat after that...having spent over a year of my life now (collectively) living in spanish speaking countries I would have thought my vocab would be a little more advanced.
i had a smashing little birthday party with my spayynish chums and mama was here too...we had a pizza party and they bought me a kettle (not widely available in shops) and a cookbook and i was truly touched. we huddled around the table duvet gas jobby as it was a chilly night, ate, drank and were merry. mumma and i necked a botella of bubbly before they arrived, i felt too sober. so it wasn't a wild night but they are bloody lovely and i am very grateful to work with them. then mumma and i scooted off to Jerez for the weekend, lured by the promise of tasty sherry and balmy summer nights. turns out it pissed it down with rain and sherry is actually pretty gnarly. we did however have a laaavely time, getting pummeled and brillo-padded (and semi-naked) at the hammam and eating REAL food with actual flavour (no Spain, salt and tomato does NOT count).
last weekend was another bank holiday, i had a whopping 6 days off this time...so i booked myself a ticket to Barcelocccca as i'd heard so many good tings. and good tings i found! a MONSTER h&m, zara etc etc, non-spanish food everywhere, cultura splashed about all over the place... just what i needed. went to some dead weird and pervy exhibitions and just generally had a swell time. even went OUT! left at around 4 when they put on robbie williams' 'rock dj' though, enough is enough. plus i was with a load of people that i didn't actually know - something i find a bit weird about backpacking etc. i prefer to go out with my friends. call me introverted. whatevs.
so, back to goat mountain for a one day working week- when i say 'day' i mean 3 hours (ooh the strain). so the gossip from constantina - either my neighbour over the back has developped Tourette's or someone with Tourette's has recently moved in. He yells 'Aaahhbaah, aaahhbaah, aaahhbaah, aaahhbaah, aaahhbaah' A LOT and then he yells the c-word, 'see you next tuesday' - get me? ouch. at least he doesn't use the most offensive word of all 'ostia'- that's 'holy bread' when it's at home, reserved only for very special situations. that's about the extent of the constantina goss to be honest.
anyway going home for christmas in only a few days, wippee! seriously thinking about moving to sevilla and driving up the mountain for work monday to thursday. it does mean the blog content would most likely be less entertaining BUT i've got my sanity to consider. watch this space...
gracias for reading.
xxxx
Monday, 15 November 2010
second best espanyola invention EVER (surpassed only by the mop)
so apparently winter does exist in spayyyn, contrary to popular belief sometimes more than flip flops are required. despite bringing an entire car load of stuff i wouldn't say i'm adequately prepared for the onset of a chilly winter, what exactly was going through my itsy bitsy brain when i packed my tosho leopard print fur coat? this town has a shit fit if i step out onto my cobbled street in ripped jeans - sofi, sofi what happened to your clothes? you should get your mum to fix them. no point trying to explain. ugg boots - another source of fascination in this teeny town... don't think they'll be rushing out to buy themselves a pair. wayfarers haven't exactly gone down a treat either. neither have stripy tops - éeeeh sofi you look like where's wally. gracias.
however just when i began to dread the chilly winter my adoptive spanish grandparents (they live downstairs and own my flat) stepped in. they kept banging on about this thangy called a 'naguilla' (yep i can't find it in a spanish dictionary either) that is supposed to keep you roasty toasty all winter long... i put if off for a while as i really don't have the faintest idea what they're talking about... until one night they invite me to sit on their rocking chair put my legs under their table (not even joking). all a bit odd. however i go along with it (because that's what you do on your gap yah isn't it) and find my legs & feet delightfully warm and fuzzy under the velour stylee tablecloth (this is a special winter tablecloth, as though the table feels the cold too). so i come to the conclusion that it's some sort of electric tablecloth... i was so wrong. they lift up the special winter table duvet and underneath is a gas heater, that's right with it's bright blue flame burning its little spanish heart out enclosed (yup without oxygen) by a wooden table, a wooden base (for safety appaz) and a fluffy tablecloth.
to be fair it works a treat, i have mine installed and burning bright right now and i'm beautifully cosy. somehow (touch wood - perhaps the wooden table that is within a foot of the naked flame?) i haven't yet set my feet on fire, or the tablecloth, or the flat. i asked my students (just to clarify - as the whole under table gas flame thangy worried me a little bit) if these thingys are dangerous? they say nooo noooo, they used to be, but that's when they were gas, now they're electric. not in my flat. just so long as i remember to turn it off before i go to bed i should wake up the next day. so far so good.
so that's something completely novel to me... speaking of novel - two things that just will NOT wear off and are becoming a little testing. every time it rains/looks like it might rain/the smallest mention of rain - every faaacking person makes a point of saying - éeeeh sofi it's about to rain, why don't you get out there then you'll feel at home? what are you doing inside - it's about to rain, QUICK!! get out there and make the most of it while you can'. funny once. once is enough though. thanks.
my car. and it's steering wheel is a source of constant entertainment. ok so it's on the other side of the car but they just cannee get over it, it induces genuine belly laughs, the kind that hurts the next day. give them a lift and you've made a friend for life.
actual conversation i had on saturday (with someone from seville, no small-town excuses)
i will finish here otherwise i'll keep going all night (wahey - definitely ZILCH risk of that here).
spayynish snogs xxxx
PS photos to follow, to bring the description to life.
PPS the bit about the mop - the spanish definitely invented the mop, almost every single spaniard i've met has explicitly told me so. they like to mop the pavement outside their houses, ideally every day. clever me for bagging the first floor flat.
however just when i began to dread the chilly winter my adoptive spanish grandparents (they live downstairs and own my flat) stepped in. they kept banging on about this thangy called a 'naguilla' (yep i can't find it in a spanish dictionary either) that is supposed to keep you roasty toasty all winter long... i put if off for a while as i really don't have the faintest idea what they're talking about... until one night they invite me to sit on their rocking chair put my legs under their table (not even joking). all a bit odd. however i go along with it (because that's what you do on your gap yah isn't it) and find my legs & feet delightfully warm and fuzzy under the velour stylee tablecloth (this is a special winter tablecloth, as though the table feels the cold too). so i come to the conclusion that it's some sort of electric tablecloth... i was so wrong. they lift up the special winter table duvet and underneath is a gas heater, that's right with it's bright blue flame burning its little spanish heart out enclosed (yup without oxygen) by a wooden table, a wooden base (for safety appaz) and a fluffy tablecloth.
to be fair it works a treat, i have mine installed and burning bright right now and i'm beautifully cosy. somehow (touch wood - perhaps the wooden table that is within a foot of the naked flame?) i haven't yet set my feet on fire, or the tablecloth, or the flat. i asked my students (just to clarify - as the whole under table gas flame thangy worried me a little bit) if these thingys are dangerous? they say nooo noooo, they used to be, but that's when they were gas, now they're electric. not in my flat. just so long as i remember to turn it off before i go to bed i should wake up the next day. so far so good.
so that's something completely novel to me... speaking of novel - two things that just will NOT wear off and are becoming a little testing. every time it rains/looks like it might rain/the smallest mention of rain - every faaacking person makes a point of saying - éeeeh sofi it's about to rain, why don't you get out there then you'll feel at home? what are you doing inside - it's about to rain, QUICK!! get out there and make the most of it while you can'. funny once. once is enough though. thanks.
my car. and it's steering wheel is a source of constant entertainment. ok so it's on the other side of the car but they just cannee get over it, it induces genuine belly laughs, the kind that hurts the next day. give them a lift and you've made a friend for life.
actual conversation i had on saturday (with someone from seville, no small-town excuses)
so... where can you buy a car like this in spain?
what, a mini?
no, one with the steering wheel on the wrong side and british number plates.
well i don't think you can, i bought it in england.
well, how did you get it here? by plane?
no, no i drove.
but how?
...you get the idea...i will finish here otherwise i'll keep going all night (wahey - definitely ZILCH risk of that here).
spayynish snogs xxxx
PS photos to follow, to bring the description to life.
PPS the bit about the mop - the spanish definitely invented the mop, almost every single spaniard i've met has explicitly told me so. they like to mop the pavement outside their houses, ideally every day. clever me for bagging the first floor flat.
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