The sea, the sea

Kalimera !

1.I know and mispronounce six and a half words of Greek, but it seems that the Greeks are used to it. I feel useless and cheap, a member of the colonialist Easyryan brigade. Which I am, I suppose. But it’s that or not buying any fruit.

2.We thought we were going on a retreat, desert island style, but as it happens we have neighbours. Our favourite is about 12 years old, an overgrown cub, chubby, already double-chinned, equalled in loudness by the friend who calls him out from the street:
-Adonis!
….
-Adonis!
…
-Adoniiiiiis!
The poor boy has a lot to live up to with a name like that.

3.We almost didn’t leave London. The day of our departure coincided with what will certainly go down in airport history as The Big Mess. After being searched, we had to abandon all hand luggage. My SLF had to leave her cigarettes behind; I was quietly rejoicing until they also tried to take my food away from me. (Never were 2 Berliners eaten in such haste.)

4.Our flat has a sea view, and was described by the letting agent as ‘romantic’. We can see many reasons for that epithet:

- there is no television (we have to talk to each other)
- the curtains have lacy bits on them (how they float in the sea breeze!)
- there is nowhere to sit apart from the bed. (it’s very cosy)
- the toilet door doesn’t close (we have bonded)

all factors which, without any doubt, will do wonders for bringing a couple closer together.

5.Time to go and swim a little, perhaps float on the Inflatable Madness; then smile a lot and point in the fruit shop.


Ah, the sea. I watch it, sleep by it, swim in it, breathe it in, drink it (but mostly that's when I'm not paying attention).
I do hope that the guy who walks along the nudist beach casually holding a camcorder with the red light on and pointing at the naked lesbians doesn't drop it in the water by accident.


Back on Thursday. Be well!

Looks like I’m back

1. I miss..

Trying out all the bars in Granada, and dining on the tapas they bring you with every round.

The breathtaking black fake marble grandiosity of my flat’s bathroom, complete with gold fixtures and, right above the bog, a scene out of the Greek mythology, exquisitely rendered in (more) gold, red and blue.

The hours spent sprawled on the velvet sofa, late at night with my Italian flatmate, drinking beer and watching Spanish TV. It was just too hot to go to bed before 2 or 3 am.

Bitching about said velvet sofa that you end up sticking to in that hellish temperature– que putada es este terciopelo que te pega al culo.

Having an excuse to have ice-cream instead a proper dinner.

Getting hopelessly hooked on chat shows and ‘Cita rapida’ (blind date).

Starting to do our ‘homework’ after 1am and a few beers. How inspiration flew! I have rude poems to prove it.

The neighbour’s Sunday morning mix of flamenco and heavy metal. It does exist.

2. I don’t miss…

Waking up drenched in sweat at 3am every night and having to take another cold shower just to bring my temperature back down – to make sure that I’d live to see another day. Exaggerating, me? Never.

Daring myself to sit out on the balcony and trying to forget I’m terrified of heights. Then running back in.


3. London is boring, polluted and cold, therefore my SLF and I are off tomorrow for two weeks. There will be lots of swimming involved. Be well!

1. Bloggente, I'm coming back to England on Saturday. Not that it makes any difference to you, but to me yes, since it'll allow me to stop sweating to profusely for at least a couple of days.

2. I'm having trouble with English at the moment, so only popping in to say hello. Hello!

3. Now for homework I have to write a story de que te cagas for tomorrow, so I better go find something to drink, just to make sure that the muse doesn't fail me. It's worked wth every single piece of homework so far. The poem I wrote for today was de puta madre. Really. Want to read it?

Hasta luego, chios y chicas.

Blogfolks, hello.

1. Did you know that quite a few places around here were named by English people? Thought so.
Well, In Seville, there is a square called Plaza Foconeh.

Foconeh, I frowned.
That doesn´t sound very Spanish.
Or English.
Or Arabic.
Or anything.

And then I saw the light.
Four corners !

¡Por supuesto!

Well, it made me laugh.

2. Apart fom that, just the same. Drinking, sweating, not sleeping because of the heat. Not shopping. I promised my SLF a cowboy hat before I left, but there aren´t any. I thought I´d buy some shoes, but there is no way I could take more than one step in anything that passes for shoes around here. I feel so... sensible! so.. German!

3. I´m being kicked out of the building, so farewell. It´s 6 pm, and 38 degrees out there. Wish me luck.

Gente del Pueblo de Bloglandia, parte II

Still not dead. In fact, I have been :

1.wondering. How are the pavements in Granada compatible with the shoes that the women wear? Marble pavements. Shiney. Slippery. Deadly. Shoes: high heeled, hoochie mama shoes with heels like this. Do they have a special section in the ER for heels/versus pavements conflicts?

2. eating melon, watching Mujeres Desperadas, drinking beer at night on my lonesome, reading books about corruption and drug trafficking in Málaga. All at the same time.

3. Waking up at 2 am with what can only be described as a Glorious Nosebleed. After two hours of sticking my head under the cold tap/in the freezer it finally subsided - just when I was starting to wonder what the emergency number was and if the ambulance people would hit me across the face for calling them for a nose bleed, however deadly it was. That made me laugh, and then the bleeding started again. Since then I am keeping exta ice in the freezer for when the next one strikes.

4. contemplating flamenco lessons. Then deciding not too. No deodorant can withstand that kind of heat. None.

5. Contemplating going to mass on Sunday morning. To alleviate boredom. Nothing else is open, you see. I supect my SLF will try to talk me out of it. It´s so good to know I have support at home!

6. walking around, but only after 7pm. Went up and down the old Arabic quarter of the Albayzin, and only met one cat, lazily stretched across a forged iron balcony. We chatted a little; his Spanish was better than mine so I said my goodbyes and went on for more adventures. Mostly, I bought a melon.

Este verano, el calor me la suda.

1.When the temperature reaches 42 degrees, being hot becomes an occupation in itself.

2.Everything you do revolves around drinking water, buying more water to drink, eliminating water by every single pore in your body, buying more water.

3.The only way I get some sleep in my non aircon flat is by having a cold shower right before bed, then getting up half an hour later, putting on a tshirt and going back under the cold shower. Between that moment and the time my tshirt has dried up, I can easily get an hour's sleep.

4. I am slightly worried about fungus, but probably unduly. I'll let you know. Now I really need to go get some water.

!Gente del pueblo de Bloglandia!

Today I would like to offer my 'Lose 2 kilos in two days' diet.

1. Book yourself a flight to Granada. On a Sunday night.
2. get sick with nervousness before flying just to ensure your trip preparation acts as a mild laxative.
3. Do not pack any food.
4. When you land, check that, as you thought, there isn't a single food shop open. Anywhere. Crash until the morning.
5. Stay in an empty flat with two Germans who won't talk to you or offer you any food. Why would they?
6. In the morning, wake up late and rush to your first class. Without breakfast.
7. Make sure you have signed up for the intensive course, meaning you'll be studying Cortazar until 2pm. At which time foodstores have closed.
8. resign yourself to the fact that a temperature of 41 degrees is too much to even entertain notions of food. Go and have a nap.
9. At 5pm, weak yet resolute, venture out in search of a supermercado. Bingo!

Damn, people, it's hot. This morning the temperature dropped down to 36 degrees. It felt almost cool in comparison.

Sweatily yours,
y

!Gente del pueblo de Bloglandia!

Today I would like to offer my 'Lose 2 kilos in two days' diet.

1. Book yourself a flight to Granada. On a Sunday night.
2. get sick with nervousness before flying just to ensure your trip preparation acts as a mild laxative.
3. Do not pack any food.
4. When you land, check that, as you thought, there isn't a single food shop open. Anywhere. Crash until the morning.
5. Stay in an empty flat with two Germans who won't talk to you or offer you any food. Why would they?
6. In the morning, wake up late and rush to your first class. Without breakfast.
7. Make sure you have signed up for the intensive course, meaning you'll be studying Cortazar until 2pm. At which time foodstores have closed.
8. resign yourself to the fact that a temperature of 41 degrees is too much to even entertain notions of food. Go and have a nap.
9. At 5pm, weak yet resolute, venture out in search of a supermercado. Bingo!

Damn, people, it's hot. This morning the temperature dropped down to 36 degrees. It felt almost cool in comparison.

Sweatily yours,
y

Repeat after me: ¿Dónde está mi pasaporte?

I’m leaving on Sunday! I’ve started my mental list of Things to Bring with me to Granada.
Spanish slang glossary.
French-Spanish dictionary.
English-Spanish dictionary. Just to make sure.
Extremely cool-looking sunglasses to hide behind and watch people.
Strappy tops and other minimalist garments (38°, people).


2. I’ve also started fretting pretty much full time now. Will I cope? What if the Andalusian lack of consonants really really throws me and I have no idea what they’re talking about and I can’t find the words to respond? Words are my crutch, my insurance, my passport. I’m not pretty enough for people to like me if I don’t talk, you see. I need words, I need speech to flow freely out of my mouth, or I feel like an invalid.

One of my (very distinguished) university professors accepted, at the pinnacle of his career, to lecture for an academic year in some L.A college. He lasted two weeks; everything was just too frightening. The food was wrong –eg, neither French, nor English.). The people behaved strangely (neither in a French, nor in an English manner). He kept getting the wrong impression, getting the rules wrong. There were huge whale-like places called malls instead of civilised town centres. He had to drive everywhere. One evening, he was picked up by the police for walking around his neighbourhood in a city where no one walks. They thought he must have been some kind of illegal immigrant.
At least, he had the words to talk himself out of the police station, hand in his resignation letter and fly back home.

4. Note to self: make sure I look around carefully as to get the rules right. From behind extremely cool sunglasses.

Montagne russe

Minus
My Special lady Friend has been in a bad mood for the past two days, and I didn’t manage to make it better. Nor did I really have the time or the energy to try harder because work’s been a bitch.

Plus
Today, someone at work who likes me gave me various Italian delicacies in a basket, and a bottle of champagne.

Minus.
Italian food. Perhaps it was a subtle way to allude to the world cup final?
I don’t like champagne.

Plus.
I don’t give a rat’s arse about football, and if you add Crème de cassis to a glass of champagne it’s a drink worthy of the gods.

Minus.
Yesterday, someone I know lost three fingers in an epileptic fit/freak hairdryer accident.

Minus.
She is was a pianist.


In my most childish, impossible, fairytale daydreams, I’m always a healer. Of moods, bumps, bruises, breaks, pains, and of lost fingers. Once I read somewhere that wishing for magic was one of the signs of depression. I do it all the time! Don’t you?