Ok I think I made that word up.
Things that have made me titter in Spain so far.
- All the Spanish staff in work don't eat their fruit like me, ie. stuffing it into your mouth. It's a very delicate process. They get a plate and a knife, then they peel whatever fruit it is, apple, pear whatever. Then they slice it into delicate little slices and feed themselves slices off the knife. Mouths are dabbed with napkins. It's so civilised! I feel like a slobbish glutton crunching into my whole, unpeeled apple.
One of the girls in work said that the last school she worked in, everyone did that too, and a colleague of hers was too shy to eat an apple in front of anyone for the first year of her job because she couldn't peel it in one slick move like all the Spanish staff. Poor girl probably has scurvy by now.
-People put olive oil on bread and toast. There's not a sliver of margarine to be seen. I thought it was weird at first at break time, pouring olive oil onto my bread slice, but I quite like it now, it's probably healthier too..?
-My middle name is prounouced 'Hané'. My middle name is no longer the most unimaginative middle name in the UK (Jane, apologies to all my middlenamedJane friends), but Hané, it sounds better.
-People are ridiculously lovely and friendly most of the time (I'm saying most of the time because the social security office man was a byatch, but I suppose that's most public sector workers for you)...in the shop last night the guy gave us free lollipops for D and J. At the post office today, the lady gave me a free mint, 'For my cough' she said :) I've died and gone to heaven.
-Old ladies laugh. This was not a regular occurence in Portugal, but I swear I have seen old dears laughing, and dare I say it, enjoying themselves!
-It's normal for kids to be up at 10pm. My boss said she keeps her 2 year olds up until 1am during the summer holidays. How do you cope I shrieked at her! Mine are usually in bed by 7pm so I can chill out and get a break. Last night we were at a swing park at 9pm, it was floodlit. Little kids playing out at 9pm. It's crazy to me. D and J really enjoyed it (and their free lollipops) and arrived home in a giggly, sticky-mouthed, tired, happy heap. This is better than going to bed early. I could get used to it. I suppose it's better for us all because it means we can actually do more stuff when I get back from work. No one bats an eyelid if you take kids into a café or restaurant late.
-I can't find sausages in the supermarket. Only chorizo, and me and mum have got sausage cravings (hee hee). Must find them.
-I might turn into a tortilla de patata. It's the free tapas of choice. I love that you get free food. There's a place in town where you only need to buy one drink and you get plates and plates of free tapas. You don't need to pay for dinner! (Ok this is not really perplexing me, just a statement that I might turn into a tortilla if I don't stop this madness).
..I can't think of anymore but I'm sure there are more. If I think of any more I'll be sure to add it. Or if you've got any please add! :)
xxx
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Doctor doctor
I have to say (as most of you know), that I love Spain. Love it. That does not mean that I'm not a little bit perplexed by some things. I am a dumn foreigner after all.
Things that have perplexed me...
- That it took me an entire day filled with bureacracy. paperwork, passports and visits to three different social security offices, the Town Hall and the local Council, and then the doctors, just to get me and the kids registered at the local health centre. People have told me the NHS in Spain is fantastic and that people come from within the EU to get treatment here, so I suppose it's not surprising that they're very careful about who they let sign up, and that you they know 100% that you are who you are! So I went to one social security office who told me that no, I had to go to another one (and the Council first), then I went to the Council who told me I had to 'empadronar' us, ie. register everyone who lives at our address. I couldn't get the kids' social security numbers until I'd done this.
Then the Council told me no, I needed an appointment first. This was not good, as I can't get to the offices during their working hours as I don't get back until 6pm and they close at 5pm. As I was off work with a chest infection (and struggling to talk!), I had to get all this done in one day whilst I was off work. I pleaded with the woman at the desk, that my kids had been sick for a week (true), and I needed to see the bloomin' doctor! She relented and said OK I could go to another Council building where you didn't need appoinments.
This building was in the middle of nowhere. I phoned Andy and asked him to google map it. He told me the road was tiny, and I'd never find it if I jumped the bus, so I got a taxi and he didn't know where it was either, hurrah. After him stopping the meter, and studying the map for 10 minutes, he reckoned he could find it, and he did, and I got there just before they closed yay!
With us now all 'empadronado', I could go to the social security office and get the numbers for D and J. Apparently as I'm working, they don't need separate numbers but they get affiliated to my number. When I got there they told me that they couldn't affiliate D and J to my number because they do not have NIE (foreigner residency numbers) yet. Noooo I say but their appointments aren't until March, as that was the next available free slots! So what can I do. The woman disappears. I am yet again close to tears. I just want to go to the doctors! She returns and says it's OK they can have separate numbers for now and then when they have their foreigner numbers you can return and affiliate them to you.
So I have my empadronamiento documents, I have our social security numbers, I have our passports and their birth certificates (just in case!-although they caused the Council woman some confusion as they were born in Portugal but are British), and I have a sore shoulder from my bag weighing my left shoulder down. I get to the health centre and hooray the guy lets us all register. He tells me some other really important information which unfortunately I don't understand because he speaks really quickly and my Spanish is still beginner. I try to make us appointments and we are all allowed to go the next day. Wow, the next day, I don't remember being able to get appointments that quickly in the UK! and we're all sorted...except, mum is also sick, with the same thing I have and she only has a European Health Insurance card. Do these things actually work? Has anyone actually tried it?
Mum is allowed to see the doctor at the same time as me, we traipse in (with the kids and the buggies, we look like the fricking Waltons), and the doctor sees me then her, but she can't get her prescription for the much-needed antibiotics as she doesn't have her passport with her so she can't get registered. We're going back tomorrow to register her and I think it's all ok now.
So the moral of the story is. Take your passport with you everywhere. You are nothing without it (and the authorities will all eye you up suspiciously, I mean honestly, who goes out without ID on them these days tut!).
...and don't get sick! (just kidding).
Ps. I did have some more things to add that perplex me, but I got sidetracked by the whole Dr thing. I will write another column.
PPS. I just want to add that all the Spanish people I dealt with were absolutely lovely and helpful, especially the doctor's receptionist who we must have really annoyed, because there was a big queue of people behind and it took ages to sort us out, yet she was so nice and patient. So top marks to Spanish people for being so nice!!
Byeee!
Things that have perplexed me...
- That it took me an entire day filled with bureacracy. paperwork, passports and visits to three different social security offices, the Town Hall and the local Council, and then the doctors, just to get me and the kids registered at the local health centre. People have told me the NHS in Spain is fantastic and that people come from within the EU to get treatment here, so I suppose it's not surprising that they're very careful about who they let sign up, and that you they know 100% that you are who you are! So I went to one social security office who told me that no, I had to go to another one (and the Council first), then I went to the Council who told me I had to 'empadronar' us, ie. register everyone who lives at our address. I couldn't get the kids' social security numbers until I'd done this.
Then the Council told me no, I needed an appointment first. This was not good, as I can't get to the offices during their working hours as I don't get back until 6pm and they close at 5pm. As I was off work with a chest infection (and struggling to talk!), I had to get all this done in one day whilst I was off work. I pleaded with the woman at the desk, that my kids had been sick for a week (true), and I needed to see the bloomin' doctor! She relented and said OK I could go to another Council building where you didn't need appoinments.
This building was in the middle of nowhere. I phoned Andy and asked him to google map it. He told me the road was tiny, and I'd never find it if I jumped the bus, so I got a taxi and he didn't know where it was either, hurrah. After him stopping the meter, and studying the map for 10 minutes, he reckoned he could find it, and he did, and I got there just before they closed yay!
With us now all 'empadronado', I could go to the social security office and get the numbers for D and J. Apparently as I'm working, they don't need separate numbers but they get affiliated to my number. When I got there they told me that they couldn't affiliate D and J to my number because they do not have NIE (foreigner residency numbers) yet. Noooo I say but their appointments aren't until March, as that was the next available free slots! So what can I do. The woman disappears. I am yet again close to tears. I just want to go to the doctors! She returns and says it's OK they can have separate numbers for now and then when they have their foreigner numbers you can return and affiliate them to you.
So I have my empadronamiento documents, I have our social security numbers, I have our passports and their birth certificates (just in case!-although they caused the Council woman some confusion as they were born in Portugal but are British), and I have a sore shoulder from my bag weighing my left shoulder down. I get to the health centre and hooray the guy lets us all register. He tells me some other really important information which unfortunately I don't understand because he speaks really quickly and my Spanish is still beginner. I try to make us appointments and we are all allowed to go the next day. Wow, the next day, I don't remember being able to get appointments that quickly in the UK! and we're all sorted...except, mum is also sick, with the same thing I have and she only has a European Health Insurance card. Do these things actually work? Has anyone actually tried it?
Mum is allowed to see the doctor at the same time as me, we traipse in (with the kids and the buggies, we look like the fricking Waltons), and the doctor sees me then her, but she can't get her prescription for the much-needed antibiotics as she doesn't have her passport with her so she can't get registered. We're going back tomorrow to register her and I think it's all ok now.
So the moral of the story is. Take your passport with you everywhere. You are nothing without it (and the authorities will all eye you up suspiciously, I mean honestly, who goes out without ID on them these days tut!).
...and don't get sick! (just kidding).
Ps. I did have some more things to add that perplex me, but I got sidetracked by the whole Dr thing. I will write another column.
PPS. I just want to add that all the Spanish people I dealt with were absolutely lovely and helpful, especially the doctor's receptionist who we must have really annoyed, because there was a big queue of people behind and it took ages to sort us out, yet she was so nice and patient. So top marks to Spanish people for being so nice!!
Byeee!
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Fly me to the moon...please.
Well I’ve had some requests to continue the blog (2 if I’m honest, but still). So it would be rude not to.
I would really like to say that the journey to Spain wasn’t that bad, and so people I know with kids don’t dread travelling, but I’d be lying. It was the single most unpleasant experience of my life.
The babysitter 'C', had agreed to come to Spain with us to work as a full-time nanny whilst I started my new job (it was only shortly after arriving that we realised that babysitters/nannies are paid a lot more than the going rate in Portugal and she wanted to leave, but that’s another fun chapter).
Thankfully she was flying with us, because logistically I’m not sure how I would have got 2 toddlers, rucksacks, bags and buggies from our flat to temp. accommodation in Madrid on my own. Andy was still in Lisbon because he had to work his notice. Also we were going to have to get the metro when we got there, from the airport to the flat, because we don’t have car seats so we couldn’t get a taxi. I suppose I could have bought 2, but it seemed a waste of money for one journey, and the metro had seemed pretty easy when I’d got it last time on my own.
The run up to the move was so stressful. Trying to rent our flat out, all the hassle involved, legalities, fixing things (for the tenants to still find strange things to complain about, ranging from: There’s a tree branch overhanging a bit onto the washing line, cut it down ‘fore it tickles my washing, to: Someone could scale your back wall and get in the back door). Err only if they were fecking Spiderman, and anyway we’re surrounded by grannies in our area, and also it’s Lisbon not ‘The Hood’. What are you going on about??!!
Only finding a removal company we could afford at the absolute last minute. Changing all the names of the bills, cancelling things being mailed there, packing, packing, packing. Thinking about what I had to leave for the removal, and what I needed to take for us whilst in temp. flat. Felt so stressed the night before we flew, thinking the journey through in my head. I was trying to be calm, like a calm, hippy mum, who doesn’t get flustered, but just breezes around travelling mannn, and not stressing out. I’ve come to the conclusion they don’t exist. Either they’re just really stoned, or they are really rich. If you’re the latter, then it doesn’t really matter what you do if you’ve got a nice fat Mr Visa in your pocket. I had about 100 Euros to my name, so not getting far really.
Also looming over me was starting my new job literally the next morning after we arrived. So I would only have after school and the weekends to find a flat.
So there we were in the airport waiting to check in (after a trip involving me on the bus with the 2 kids, and C in a taxi with the bags). Everyone was in quite good spirits. I took a photo to celebrate this exciting moment. This would be the last cheery moment to be captured on camera.
As soon, and I mean literally as soon as we’d sat down on the Easyjet flight, Jess started crying and freaking out. She was on my lap in the aisle seat. Dan sat calmly reading, C near the window. Jess wriggled, and shrieked for the full 40 minutes it took the plane to start its take off. Just then, the air host (ess), if it’s a man is it a host? Tells me Jess can’t sit in that seat for security reasons. I turn and snarl at the man, practically biting his hand. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before the plane started taking off then?’ Sorry, says he. She can sit on the other lady’s knee though. Ah, that’s ok me thinks, no faffing about getting out our seats, and feel strangely relieved that she’s not on my knee anymore! Funny that.
Then Dan starts crying.
Then the plane takes 40 minutes to do its descent, and the turbulence is terrible. It’s like constantly falling. I feel really queasy by now.
Then Dan really starts screaming. Oh crap. Literally. I can smell it.
I need to clean him up because we can’t sit like this for the next half hour, plus it smells, plus he’s really uncomfortable and won’t stop screaming. I can’t get out my seat though. We’ve had the fasten seatbelt signs on for about 40 minutes. I start doing it there in the seat. There’s no other option. I turn my back to the other passengers and swivel round so no one can see him. As I change him, more starts coming out. I’m literally catching it with a sick bag. Then the cherry on the cake. Dan pukes up everywhere. No doubt, because we’ve been swooping down for the last 40 minutes. It. Is. Everywhere. Especially, quite handily, all over my laptop bag that was under the seat in front of him. Now he really starts screaming. I am catching fluids from both ends. My life has reached a new low.
The Brazilian teenage lads, who up until now had thought the whole thing really funny, and been laughing their heads off in the seat next to us, now really start wetting themselves. Their relatives start cracking jokes about ‘Open the window etc’. Ha ha. I hate you. I hope you have a terrible holiday and one day, an unpleasant experience such as this happens to you.
I wipe everything up and stuff it all into a sickbag.
Dan falls asleep. I have my head in my hands and 5 minutes later we land.
The air hostess tells us they can't give us our buggies back and we need to get them from the baggage carousel, thus heaving all the bags and carrying the kids at the same time (well Jess anyway).
I hate Easyjet.
I long for travelling as a single person when all I had to think about was what album to choose on my ipod, and whether a glass of vino would be nice or a cup of tea.
…but at least we’ve still got the fun journey ahead all the way to the centre of Madrid on the metro with a buggy each and dragging a huge bag behind us. Hip hip hooray.
I won’t bore you with all the details, but basically it took us a long time! And we nearly lost a baby or a bag at every train change….but we made it. We stayed in a tiny apt. for 3 weeks, I started my new job the next morning. The kids cried every night as the area was party central. No one slept. I found a flat, and things seem ok now. The babysitter left (her visa was running out and also FT babysitters get a lot more money here which we couldn’t afford), so my new search was not for a flat but for an affordable nursery. I found a nursery. It closes too early though, so my mum’s quit her job in Qatar and come to help dropping them off and picking them up. We worked out Andy can’t afford to work as an English teacher here, so he had to stay on in Lisbon and he’s job-hunting, and that’s about everything. I need to learn Spanish (and not speak Portuglish or Spanglish) I need to find the time to discover Madrid. I’ve only seen a little bit. Bit by bit it will get easier.
I don’t regret moving, and I love Spain.
I am never flying again until Dan and Jess are at least 5.
xx
I would really like to say that the journey to Spain wasn’t that bad, and so people I know with kids don’t dread travelling, but I’d be lying. It was the single most unpleasant experience of my life.
The babysitter 'C', had agreed to come to Spain with us to work as a full-time nanny whilst I started my new job (it was only shortly after arriving that we realised that babysitters/nannies are paid a lot more than the going rate in Portugal and she wanted to leave, but that’s another fun chapter).
Thankfully she was flying with us, because logistically I’m not sure how I would have got 2 toddlers, rucksacks, bags and buggies from our flat to temp. accommodation in Madrid on my own. Andy was still in Lisbon because he had to work his notice. Also we were going to have to get the metro when we got there, from the airport to the flat, because we don’t have car seats so we couldn’t get a taxi. I suppose I could have bought 2, but it seemed a waste of money for one journey, and the metro had seemed pretty easy when I’d got it last time on my own.
The run up to the move was so stressful. Trying to rent our flat out, all the hassle involved, legalities, fixing things (for the tenants to still find strange things to complain about, ranging from: There’s a tree branch overhanging a bit onto the washing line, cut it down ‘fore it tickles my washing, to: Someone could scale your back wall and get in the back door). Err only if they were fecking Spiderman, and anyway we’re surrounded by grannies in our area, and also it’s Lisbon not ‘The Hood’. What are you going on about??!!
Only finding a removal company we could afford at the absolute last minute. Changing all the names of the bills, cancelling things being mailed there, packing, packing, packing. Thinking about what I had to leave for the removal, and what I needed to take for us whilst in temp. flat. Felt so stressed the night before we flew, thinking the journey through in my head. I was trying to be calm, like a calm, hippy mum, who doesn’t get flustered, but just breezes around travelling mannn, and not stressing out. I’ve come to the conclusion they don’t exist. Either they’re just really stoned, or they are really rich. If you’re the latter, then it doesn’t really matter what you do if you’ve got a nice fat Mr Visa in your pocket. I had about 100 Euros to my name, so not getting far really.
Also looming over me was starting my new job literally the next morning after we arrived. So I would only have after school and the weekends to find a flat.
So there we were in the airport waiting to check in (after a trip involving me on the bus with the 2 kids, and C in a taxi with the bags). Everyone was in quite good spirits. I took a photo to celebrate this exciting moment. This would be the last cheery moment to be captured on camera.
As soon, and I mean literally as soon as we’d sat down on the Easyjet flight, Jess started crying and freaking out. She was on my lap in the aisle seat. Dan sat calmly reading, C near the window. Jess wriggled, and shrieked for the full 40 minutes it took the plane to start its take off. Just then, the air host (ess), if it’s a man is it a host? Tells me Jess can’t sit in that seat for security reasons. I turn and snarl at the man, practically biting his hand. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before the plane started taking off then?’ Sorry, says he. She can sit on the other lady’s knee though. Ah, that’s ok me thinks, no faffing about getting out our seats, and feel strangely relieved that she’s not on my knee anymore! Funny that.
Then Dan starts crying.
Then the plane takes 40 minutes to do its descent, and the turbulence is terrible. It’s like constantly falling. I feel really queasy by now.
Then Dan really starts screaming. Oh crap. Literally. I can smell it.
I need to clean him up because we can’t sit like this for the next half hour, plus it smells, plus he’s really uncomfortable and won’t stop screaming. I can’t get out my seat though. We’ve had the fasten seatbelt signs on for about 40 minutes. I start doing it there in the seat. There’s no other option. I turn my back to the other passengers and swivel round so no one can see him. As I change him, more starts coming out. I’m literally catching it with a sick bag. Then the cherry on the cake. Dan pukes up everywhere. No doubt, because we’ve been swooping down for the last 40 minutes. It. Is. Everywhere. Especially, quite handily, all over my laptop bag that was under the seat in front of him. Now he really starts screaming. I am catching fluids from both ends. My life has reached a new low.
The Brazilian teenage lads, who up until now had thought the whole thing really funny, and been laughing their heads off in the seat next to us, now really start wetting themselves. Their relatives start cracking jokes about ‘Open the window etc’. Ha ha. I hate you. I hope you have a terrible holiday and one day, an unpleasant experience such as this happens to you.
I wipe everything up and stuff it all into a sickbag.
Dan falls asleep. I have my head in my hands and 5 minutes later we land.
The air hostess tells us they can't give us our buggies back and we need to get them from the baggage carousel, thus heaving all the bags and carrying the kids at the same time (well Jess anyway).
I hate Easyjet.
I long for travelling as a single person when all I had to think about was what album to choose on my ipod, and whether a glass of vino would be nice or a cup of tea.
…but at least we’ve still got the fun journey ahead all the way to the centre of Madrid on the metro with a buggy each and dragging a huge bag behind us. Hip hip hooray.
I won’t bore you with all the details, but basically it took us a long time! And we nearly lost a baby or a bag at every train change….but we made it. We stayed in a tiny apt. for 3 weeks, I started my new job the next morning. The kids cried every night as the area was party central. No one slept. I found a flat, and things seem ok now. The babysitter left (her visa was running out and also FT babysitters get a lot more money here which we couldn’t afford), so my new search was not for a flat but for an affordable nursery. I found a nursery. It closes too early though, so my mum’s quit her job in Qatar and come to help dropping them off and picking them up. We worked out Andy can’t afford to work as an English teacher here, so he had to stay on in Lisbon and he’s job-hunting, and that’s about everything. I need to learn Spanish (and not speak Portuglish or Spanglish) I need to find the time to discover Madrid. I’ve only seen a little bit. Bit by bit it will get easier.
I don’t regret moving, and I love Spain.
I am never flying again until Dan and Jess are at least 5.
xx
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Leaving in 4 days so I've been reflecting on things before I go...
Things I won't miss so much in Portugal:
Things I won't miss so much in Portugal:
- If you want a snack in a café you have to eat a toasty or a deep-fried unidentified meat pasty. Although this has got better recently with new shops like Go Natural, so you can buy things like bagels and sushi! (if you've got a spare €15, it aint cheap). If you want a quick snack, it's a toasty, sorry matey. (I know that anyone Portuguese reading this will think I'm a cheeky beggar because British food is the worst in the world as most of my students have always told me:)).
- Most shops and supermarkets never having change. If your bill for example is €7.48, you will be asked for the 8 cents or the 48c. If you don't have it, this will usually result in a tut, eye-rolling and general disgruntledness. I can understand small shops not having change, but a supermarket! Why?
- Everyone asking me if I'm Ukranian. What, because I'm pale with blue eyes? This is also a common feature of many other countries, in particular...erm, the UK!
- Always, always being bad at Portuguese. I've tried, I really have. I've studied, I've sat exams. Yet I still have crap pronunciation, and people never understand me. Ironically if I WAS Ukranian, I'd have a great Portuguese accent.
- Middle-aged women asking me if I'm pregnant (when I'm not), then saying 'Oh you look pregnant'. Or telling me 'You look fatter', or 'You're getting fatter'. I like to think it's a language barrier, when really they were trying to say 'Wow you look great'.
- Cobbles and hills. As pretty as it looks. Cobbles and hills combined do not a happy mum make. Especially one who's got a double buggy and shopping hanging off it in 38 degree heat.
Things I will miss about Portugal:
- How beautiful it is.
- How beautiful Lisbon is.
- The Winter. Surely nothing is nicer than sitting drinking coffee outside when you're wrapped up, but the sun's still shining and it's a pleasant temperature. The River. So many nice memories of the Brazilian café by Cais do Sodré-watching the boats go by. None of your feeble, skinny rivers. This is a great big choppy thing that branches out into the Atlantic. You'll see fishing boats, sightseeing boats, commuter ferries, huge cruiseliners, coastguards, wee kayaks...ooh I like a boat me. Might even see me ol' mucker Terry passing by!
- Pastel de nata (especially the ones in Belém). A bit like an egg-custard tart, but so much better. I've been known to sit on a tram for half an hour there, and half an hour back, just to buy one little tart (snigger).
- The most relaxing bars in the world- My little Alfama mirodouro and Terraço by the Castle. Sitting on a warm evening on a sofa ...with a caiparinha in hand. Bliss.
So adeus Portugal. Thanks for the memories.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Burn in hell estate agents.
Is it just me or do you need to be a complete weirdo to be an estate agent.
I wasn't going to write anything else but I just had to put this on!
8pm, kids in bed. Me in PJs. Someone rings doorbell impatiently. Wonder who the hell it is ringing away on my doorbell at this ungodly hour (ie. my one time of the day when I can have a cup of tea in piece and watch The City without children screaming).
There's a skinny, leathery estate agent outside my window with 2 young men. 'Can we come in' says he. I already asked your OH (who had tried to call me but my phone was on silent as usual). Erm OK says I, wishing I didn't have my PJs on.
He comes in, they look round bla bla, the usual...BUT the estate agent proceeds to make the following not entirely helpful statements in front of the prospective tenants:
1) You get a lot of transvestite prostitutes round here at night don't you.
2) I've seen a flat cheaper than this in a better area.
3) Yeah it might have a garden, but Portuguese people aren't interested in things like gardens when they rent a flat.
4) Wow the bathroom's tiny.
ARGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH are you trying to rent our flat or what!!!
In response to point number 1, I said 'Well they don't bother me', and he said 'Yeah but they might bother these young men', with a sinister grin, nudge nudge, wink wink.
I swear I'm not making these people up.
Good night!
http://my.msn.com/addtomymsn.armx?id= rss&ut=http://www.urblogfeedaddress.com/urblog.xml
I wasn't going to write anything else but I just had to put this on!
8pm, kids in bed. Me in PJs. Someone rings doorbell impatiently. Wonder who the hell it is ringing away on my doorbell at this ungodly hour (ie. my one time of the day when I can have a cup of tea in piece and watch The City without children screaming).
There's a skinny, leathery estate agent outside my window with 2 young men. 'Can we come in' says he. I already asked your OH (who had tried to call me but my phone was on silent as usual). Erm OK says I, wishing I didn't have my PJs on.
He comes in, they look round bla bla, the usual...BUT the estate agent proceeds to make the following not entirely helpful statements in front of the prospective tenants:
1) You get a lot of transvestite prostitutes round here at night don't you.
2) I've seen a flat cheaper than this in a better area.
3) Yeah it might have a garden, but Portuguese people aren't interested in things like gardens when they rent a flat.
4) Wow the bathroom's tiny.
ARGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH are you trying to rent our flat or what!!!
In response to point number 1, I said 'Well they don't bother me', and he said 'Yeah but they might bother these young men', with a sinister grin, nudge nudge, wink wink.
I swear I'm not making these people up.
Good night!
http://my.msn.com/addtomymsn.armx?id= rss&ut=http://www.urblogfeedaddress.com/urblog.xml
Dude where's my tapas.
DAY ONE
So although this trip isn't really a fun trip, as OH said, I should try and enjoy it a bit and at least squeeze some tapas in somewhere along the line, and some nice coffees. Oh I wish. That was the plan, but the path somehow leads me to:
1) Visiting the official Most Depressing Residential Areas in Madrid.
2) Not eating anything remotely tasty.
3) Tears before bedtime.
As I make my way towards the metro in the airport (it's surprisingly easy to find), so going well so far. Get to the ticket machines. Huge queues at the manned desk, so I try the machines. Doesn't accept my note. Doesn't accept my bank card, or the emergancy credit card (although it says it takes cards). I don't have enough change. This is going well. So I join the humungous queue and get my 10 journey ticket. Here commences my quest to see how many tube journeys I can squeeze into less than 2 days...and it's a lot. I spend the 36 hours on the metro pretty much...and it's really hot....and it sucks!
I'm not slagging off the Madrid metro here, it's actually very efficient and organised, and not as crowded as the London underground (but that could be because it's August and everyone's on hols). It's just not fun for me because I'm lugging a rucksack round half the time, and it's really hot and sweaty, and half the time I have to stand up. So this is not fun, and not really the sitting in street cafés eating tapas that I envisioned BUT I am here on a mission, so let it commence.
I get to the sleazy 2-star hotel in Sol that the budget stretched to (I thought who cares, it's only for 1 night). The room is yellow and brown, literally I'm in a haze of yellow and brown. There's no AC, just a really slow ceiling fan that clunks and creaks, it's actually so noisy I think I'll sleep without it on, but then all I can hear is the lift clunking outside my window, so I decide to leave it on. The door doesn't shut properly (there's a couple of inches gap at the bottom. When I put the ceiling fan on, it casts a weird flickering light round the room from the overhead strip light which makes my eyelids twitch. I actually feel like I've taken acid right now. I'm also really thirsty as haven't drunk anything for hours (except a take-out coffee, the remainders of which sit on the bedside table). So I down my nice cold coffee, and with a few more eye-twitches, I'm off back out.
I think I might die in that room. It's getting bolted when I get back in :)
1st flat: Tiny, no bath, 2 tiny rooms leading onto the tiny living room-so if you put the kids to bed, you'd be right next to them and couldn't make any noise. Drab area, nothing around, no sign of life, loads of graffiti, I feel like I'm in the Mexican wild west....back on the tube.
2nd flat: Chamartin, ahh the lovely Chamartin I've heard so much about. A really nice, lively area. I come out the train station, cross over a car-park and some wasteland, and walk through an industrial/office block area, nice. Get to the blocks of flats (which although the flats look nice, there's literally nothing around). No shops, no cafés, no life, no nothing. What if I need to pop out for a pint of milk. The thought of that crappy walk over wasteland when my classes finish at 9.30 at night isn't really appealing either. I decide not to even bother seeing it, and as I'm an hour early, I text the guy to cancel.
3rd flat: It's in a really posh area. I'm feeling suspicious already. I know for a fact we can't afford anything in this area so why is it a reasonable price. It is only 2-beds, but still, I'm suspicious. I pass Chanel, Louis Vuitton etc. This doesn't feel right. I actually don't even want to live here. I want to live in a normal area, with corner shops and nice, normal people. Not yuppies getting out of chauffered cars in sunglasses with little dogs in their pockets.
I'm stupidly early as usual, but there's nothing around. I'm sorted if I want a Prada handbag, but really I just want a coffee. It's getting clammy and cloudy, my feet are killing. Hoorah I spot an empty, overpriced sandwich shop. Get a coffee and doughnut and sit for an hour. Leave the shop and it starts raining. How can it rain in Madrid in August?! See the flat. It's tiny, dark, and weirdly you go up steps, then down steps to get to the front door (I again feel like I'm on acid, or in the cat in the hat book). 1 tiny bedroom. But wait I say, I thought this was 2 beds (but in my bad Spanish it goes something more like this: 'dos habitaciones?'. Si vale she says, and pulls out a stepladder from the ceiling leading to a prisoner-style bunk/room. Er ok probably not good for a family of 4 and I think a tad dangerous for the little ones, hey ho.
Time to go home, yes home sweet home. I can't find the nearest metro. Ask in the sandwich shop again and he directs me the wrong way, ask someone else and eventually I find it but not before I've got totally drenched in my not-very-suitable summer dress and flip-flops. Sit like a drowned rat on the metro, get back to my luxury apartment, bolt the door, remember I forgot to buy a bottle of water and pass out in a dehydrated, belly-rumbling, headachey yellow and brown haze.
Get woken up by a text from the Chamartin flat guy: 'Don't worry, we already rented it this morning anyway'.
http://my.msn.com/addtomymsn.armx?id= rss&ut=http://www.urblogfeedaddress.com/urblog.xml
So although this trip isn't really a fun trip, as OH said, I should try and enjoy it a bit and at least squeeze some tapas in somewhere along the line, and some nice coffees. Oh I wish. That was the plan, but the path somehow leads me to:
1) Visiting the official Most Depressing Residential Areas in Madrid.
2) Not eating anything remotely tasty.
3) Tears before bedtime.
As I make my way towards the metro in the airport (it's surprisingly easy to find), so going well so far. Get to the ticket machines. Huge queues at the manned desk, so I try the machines. Doesn't accept my note. Doesn't accept my bank card, or the emergancy credit card (although it says it takes cards). I don't have enough change. This is going well. So I join the humungous queue and get my 10 journey ticket. Here commences my quest to see how many tube journeys I can squeeze into less than 2 days...and it's a lot. I spend the 36 hours on the metro pretty much...and it's really hot....and it sucks!
I'm not slagging off the Madrid metro here, it's actually very efficient and organised, and not as crowded as the London underground (but that could be because it's August and everyone's on hols). It's just not fun for me because I'm lugging a rucksack round half the time, and it's really hot and sweaty, and half the time I have to stand up. So this is not fun, and not really the sitting in street cafés eating tapas that I envisioned BUT I am here on a mission, so let it commence.
I get to the sleazy 2-star hotel in Sol that the budget stretched to (I thought who cares, it's only for 1 night). The room is yellow and brown, literally I'm in a haze of yellow and brown. There's no AC, just a really slow ceiling fan that clunks and creaks, it's actually so noisy I think I'll sleep without it on, but then all I can hear is the lift clunking outside my window, so I decide to leave it on. The door doesn't shut properly (there's a couple of inches gap at the bottom. When I put the ceiling fan on, it casts a weird flickering light round the room from the overhead strip light which makes my eyelids twitch. I actually feel like I've taken acid right now. I'm also really thirsty as haven't drunk anything for hours (except a take-out coffee, the remainders of which sit on the bedside table). So I down my nice cold coffee, and with a few more eye-twitches, I'm off back out.
I think I might die in that room. It's getting bolted when I get back in :)
1st flat: Tiny, no bath, 2 tiny rooms leading onto the tiny living room-so if you put the kids to bed, you'd be right next to them and couldn't make any noise. Drab area, nothing around, no sign of life, loads of graffiti, I feel like I'm in the Mexican wild west....back on the tube.
2nd flat: Chamartin, ahh the lovely Chamartin I've heard so much about. A really nice, lively area. I come out the train station, cross over a car-park and some wasteland, and walk through an industrial/office block area, nice. Get to the blocks of flats (which although the flats look nice, there's literally nothing around). No shops, no cafés, no life, no nothing. What if I need to pop out for a pint of milk. The thought of that crappy walk over wasteland when my classes finish at 9.30 at night isn't really appealing either. I decide not to even bother seeing it, and as I'm an hour early, I text the guy to cancel.
3rd flat: It's in a really posh area. I'm feeling suspicious already. I know for a fact we can't afford anything in this area so why is it a reasonable price. It is only 2-beds, but still, I'm suspicious. I pass Chanel, Louis Vuitton etc. This doesn't feel right. I actually don't even want to live here. I want to live in a normal area, with corner shops and nice, normal people. Not yuppies getting out of chauffered cars in sunglasses with little dogs in their pockets.
I'm stupidly early as usual, but there's nothing around. I'm sorted if I want a Prada handbag, but really I just want a coffee. It's getting clammy and cloudy, my feet are killing. Hoorah I spot an empty, overpriced sandwich shop. Get a coffee and doughnut and sit for an hour. Leave the shop and it starts raining. How can it rain in Madrid in August?! See the flat. It's tiny, dark, and weirdly you go up steps, then down steps to get to the front door (I again feel like I'm on acid, or in the cat in the hat book). 1 tiny bedroom. But wait I say, I thought this was 2 beds (but in my bad Spanish it goes something more like this: 'dos habitaciones?'. Si vale she says, and pulls out a stepladder from the ceiling leading to a prisoner-style bunk/room. Er ok probably not good for a family of 4 and I think a tad dangerous for the little ones, hey ho.
Time to go home, yes home sweet home. I can't find the nearest metro. Ask in the sandwich shop again and he directs me the wrong way, ask someone else and eventually I find it but not before I've got totally drenched in my not-very-suitable summer dress and flip-flops. Sit like a drowned rat on the metro, get back to my luxury apartment, bolt the door, remember I forgot to buy a bottle of water and pass out in a dehydrated, belly-rumbling, headachey yellow and brown haze.
Get woken up by a text from the Chamartin flat guy: 'Don't worry, we already rented it this morning anyway'.
http://my.msn.com/addtomymsn.armx?id= rss&ut=http://www.urblogfeedaddress.com/urblog.xml
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Leaving on a jet plane..
Soooo my first blog. I feel awkward, have never had a blog before. I've sort of half-admired, half thought 'how can you be bothered to write one' about other bloggers, but when I was sweating my way round the Madrid underground looking for flats the other day, experiencing weird experiences, I thought....it would be fun to write about this if I could be bothered because I really don't think my husband is interested in listening to the ramblings of my brain. So please indulge my wafflings here :)
I suppose it would also be good for my mum to catch up with what's going on in my life too because I haven't spoken to her since she went back to the Middle East almost a month ago! Between her not being able to get through to me, or everytime I call her a distended Arabic voice tells me there's no-one at the other end of her phone, or as I discovered when she finally wrote me an email, she's forgotten how to use skype. So this may be useful (if she works out how to click on the link), and also maybe some of my friends might read it! (please, friendies please)...
Basically I'm moving from Lisbon to Madrid in 2 weeks (I got a new, shiny job). We haven't been able to rent our flat out yet (despite it being a great flat), honest guv. People are so fussy! We haven't found somewhere to live in Madrid yet. My husb (let's call him OH, other half..it's easier), is on the job-hunt path, we have 2 small kids, not much money and don't really speak Spanish so it's all a bit mental. Also if we don't rent our flat OH has to stay here in Lisbon until it's rented...
It was decided that I'd go on a recon. visit to Madrid, and I'd naively hoped that I might find somewhere in less than 2 days. It would have been so much easier to sort a flat on my own first before having to turn up there with 2 kids in tow and live in a B&B or something while I go out and look.
The journey wasn't too bad. Easyjet was quite easy from Lisbon. Although I've decided recently that I hate flying, really hate it. Not in an I'm scared way, but just the whole experience. I think maybe it used to be a nice and quite luxurious experience, but it's just c*** now. Waiting around in the airport for hours, paying 5€ for a sweaty sandwich. Everyone barging in front of you in the queue even though you were one of the first people there. Feeling really guilty and nervous when you go through security. I literally hold my breath when I go through the scanner thing. Why? I'm only carrying a Dove deodorant spray, why the rampant paranoia?? Not being able to afford anything in duty-free sniff sniff. Taking 10 mins to get a seat as you shuffle down the aisle with fat guys from London bashing you as they reach for the overhead lockers. Getting squashed. Getting moaned at by air-hostesses for not having your bag to the correct degree of underyourseatness. ARGH, everything is argh!
But I digress. So this flight seemed to be going ok. No-one had sat by me yet. The really loud and irritating teenagers had sat near the back. Until duh-duh-duh a couple sat next to me. They were quite quiet at first (a good sign), they didn't talk to me (a better sign), they started to kiss a bit (a bad sign). She started reading things and knocking stuff everywhere, completely oblivious to the fact that she was dropping magazines on me. I waited...she didn't move them. I moved them 'Oh desculpe', she seemed so apologetic. Maybe they're not that bad I thought. Until she did it again. Then they started snogging more. Then they started taking photos. Could it get worse...yes. When she leaned into me, stretched her arm behind me and started taking photos out the window (I was in the window seat), as if I wasn't there! You know when you have those moments where you want to shout 'Excuse me, am I fe***** invisible here!'. Anyway photo-taking calmed down. Snogging resumed. I sat grumpily thinking 'Oh F-off and get married, you'll soon stop this canoodling'.
Next update. Arrival in Madrid! ...and it has its highs and lows.
Thanks for reading! :)
http://my.msn.com/addtomymsn.armx?id= rss&ut=http://www.urblogfeedaddress.com/urblog.xml
I suppose it would also be good for my mum to catch up with what's going on in my life too because I haven't spoken to her since she went back to the Middle East almost a month ago! Between her not being able to get through to me, or everytime I call her a distended Arabic voice tells me there's no-one at the other end of her phone, or as I discovered when she finally wrote me an email, she's forgotten how to use skype. So this may be useful (if she works out how to click on the link), and also maybe some of my friends might read it! (please, friendies please)...
Basically I'm moving from Lisbon to Madrid in 2 weeks (I got a new, shiny job). We haven't been able to rent our flat out yet (despite it being a great flat), honest guv. People are so fussy! We haven't found somewhere to live in Madrid yet. My husb (let's call him OH, other half..it's easier), is on the job-hunt path, we have 2 small kids, not much money and don't really speak Spanish so it's all a bit mental. Also if we don't rent our flat OH has to stay here in Lisbon until it's rented...
It was decided that I'd go on a recon. visit to Madrid, and I'd naively hoped that I might find somewhere in less than 2 days. It would have been so much easier to sort a flat on my own first before having to turn up there with 2 kids in tow and live in a B&B or something while I go out and look.
The journey wasn't too bad. Easyjet was quite easy from Lisbon. Although I've decided recently that I hate flying, really hate it. Not in an I'm scared way, but just the whole experience. I think maybe it used to be a nice and quite luxurious experience, but it's just c*** now. Waiting around in the airport for hours, paying 5€ for a sweaty sandwich. Everyone barging in front of you in the queue even though you were one of the first people there. Feeling really guilty and nervous when you go through security. I literally hold my breath when I go through the scanner thing. Why? I'm only carrying a Dove deodorant spray, why the rampant paranoia?? Not being able to afford anything in duty-free sniff sniff. Taking 10 mins to get a seat as you shuffle down the aisle with fat guys from London bashing you as they reach for the overhead lockers. Getting squashed. Getting moaned at by air-hostesses for not having your bag to the correct degree of underyourseatness. ARGH, everything is argh!
But I digress. So this flight seemed to be going ok. No-one had sat by me yet. The really loud and irritating teenagers had sat near the back. Until duh-duh-duh a couple sat next to me. They were quite quiet at first (a good sign), they didn't talk to me (a better sign), they started to kiss a bit (a bad sign). She started reading things and knocking stuff everywhere, completely oblivious to the fact that she was dropping magazines on me. I waited...she didn't move them. I moved them 'Oh desculpe', she seemed so apologetic. Maybe they're not that bad I thought. Until she did it again. Then they started snogging more. Then they started taking photos. Could it get worse...yes. When she leaned into me, stretched her arm behind me and started taking photos out the window (I was in the window seat), as if I wasn't there! You know when you have those moments where you want to shout 'Excuse me, am I fe***** invisible here!'. Anyway photo-taking calmed down. Snogging resumed. I sat grumpily thinking 'Oh F-off and get married, you'll soon stop this canoodling'.
Next update. Arrival in Madrid! ...and it has its highs and lows.
Thanks for reading! :)
http://my.msn.com/addtomymsn.armx?id= rss&ut=http://www.urblogfeedaddress.com/urblog.xml
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