A Tale of Two Countries

Lost in translation again: Mummy needs to go to 'el colegio' with 'los ninos'

I recently enrolled my two young boys in the local Spanish school so they could integrate with the community in a proper way. I consider this important: not only do the boys make new Spanish friends but Mummy has the job of escorting them to various after-school activities - such as football practise and birthday parties - which forces social interaction with other Spanish parents. Outside the world of 'el colegio', these fellow members of society would surely be overlooked because of the inability to conduct a coherent and meaningful conversation that doesn't result in gesticulating and blustering over lost and forgotten words. Muy embarazoso!

At a Spanish kids' sixth birthday bash held in the function room of a local bar last week, for example, Mummy was somewhat priveleged to be the sole English parent. So there I was: brandishing a cheese sandwich containing excessive amounts of butter and vaguely wondering whether it would look 'malo' to procure a social-nerve-calming glass of vino. As none of the other parents were openly drinking alcohol, the vino was vetoed. The cheese sandwich became heavy and dropped to the floor (worse than 'los ninos' - oops). A fellow parent said that my youngest son is in the same class as her three-year-old but I initially misheard it as "why is he here - does he know the birthday boy". Oblivious to my slightly awkward feelings, Oldest Son dived straight into the fray, chasing the birthday boy around and brandishing balloon swords. The Spanish parents seem to encourage 'fun sparring', for want of a better word. I was relieved when the party ended so we could return to the 'comfort zone' of our own house and the wood-burning stove. After accidentally tipping a plate of half-eaten, gooey birthday cake over a table at the back of the room, it seemed prudent to leave quite quickly.

Last week's encouraging example of integration by Oldest Son was sadly counteracted by this week's incident of the 'bolsa in the bin'. All the kids have a school rucksack ('mochila') and, when school Comedor (dining room) ended yesterday, Oldest Son's rucksack was strangely missing. Following a fruitless 20min search of the playground, Mummy took to ranting at random adults re "la bolsa es perdida" and "donde esta un habitacion para propeidad perdida", which nobody seemed to take on board. In view of the general lack of progress, the hunt was abandoned. This morning, an English Mum emerged from the play area to say that the bag had later been spotted in the bin: however, the school caretaker (a lady in her 40s) wasn't sure what I was ranting on about yesterday. The bag was duly returned, albeit a bit dirty. Mummy knows who put the bag in the bin (an older Spanish boy). The culprit possibly hopes his crime against personal property and hygenie will be 'lost in translation'. He's probably right!

Meanwhile, Oldest Son (5) and Youngest Son (3) are already coming home from school and repeating Spanish words and phrases in perfect Andalus accents. They've only been "integrating" for two months and their capacity to take on board 'un otro idioma' is clearly more akin to "absorbent little sponge" (kids) than "village idiot" (Mummy). I'm not sure whether to be proud or slightly jealous... neither of them suddenly slips into a Home Counties "a" when pronouncing "vado" or accidentally pronounces the "h" on "hombre". Oldest Son already talks about "Speederman". Cool. Maybe he can pronounce my van numberplate in correct Spanish letters of the alphabet when I next book airport parking services.

Or maybe Mummy needs to go to school herself, and 'muy rapido' The fact that I've widely mistranslating "the school" as "upon straining" when speaking to townspeople isn't entirely inspiring re keeping up with the five-year-olds!

Very bad and a little mad (muy malo y un poco loco)

 

Being a writer of “dry, ironic humour” has its upside (including the chance to snigger childishly at one’s own work) and its downside (other people occasionally thinking it’s not funny). Yours truly is a prime ranter, sniggerer and delver into black humour when the usual dry humour doesn’t suffice, as well as being “self obsessed”, “droning on” and full of “I, I, I” (“way-aye!”) and the cult of “me, me, meeeeeeeeeee”! See, I can take the piss out of myself as well as lambasting assorted other ‘targets’. Well, one has to write about something, I suppose.

But is this sort of material a bit, well, questionable? Should yours truly be more sensible in what is penned? A recent misunderstanding about my ‘Beware the Brits Abroad’ blog entry has led me to contemplate where journalism ends and undue criticism begins. After much hair-pulling about offending a ‘nice lady’ from Torre del Mar with my comments in the aforementioned blog entry, and even showing the offending material to my elderly Mother (more stringent than Mary Whitehouse in her heyday) to see if I had “gone too far this time” (she said not), it transpired that it was a case of mistaken identity. The ‘nice lady’ thought that one of my targets for sarcasm, ‘Hectoring Dad’ – whose son I had named ‘Jack’, just as I might have called him ‘John’ or ‘Jim’ - was based on her close male friend. By unfortunate coincidence, this man’s son of a similar age is called Jack and the family concerned was staying at the Torre del Mar campsite at the same time as Hectoring Dad and me. The ‘nice lady’ eventually asked her friend “did your son enjoy the campsite swimming pool” (the location drawing my sarcastic narrative) and he answered “we never went near it”. I was pleased as punch when this hideous misunderstanding was resolved as, believe it or not, I don’t like to offend people (especially nice ones)... but a slight paranoia about my “dry humour” has lingered onwards.

For example, I love Spain and could never, ever be considered a Spain-hater but I’m continually sarcastic about some of its characteristics, such as naff customer service and manic motorists. I would call it “poking fun” or “being ironic”. However, some people view my observations in a different way. An English hombre of my acquaintance recently insisted “you bring motoring problems upon yourself by being so negative about the other motorists” and added “why is it that you assume some of them are drunk” (this was a bit rich, considering that my critic was tipsy on costa at the time). Hmm! The aforementioned hombre completed the box-set of compliments by suggesting that “...if you want to continue with your pants driving, you should keep up your existing attitude” and topped it off with the old chestnut (wait for it), “my Mother is just the same”. Argh! I pointed out that there’s a difference between being “negative” and adopting “defensive driving” where – for example – one does not venture too close beside the car that’s swaying from lane to lane in front of one’s own vehicle. Ironically, about two minutes after I ejected the hombre out of my van, a Spanish driver shot out of a side street without looking and I had to do an emergency stop. Of course, if he’d crashed into my van, it would have been my fault for being so jolly negative and nothing whatsoever to do with his ‘malo’ driving abilities (more on ‘malo’ soon).

Anyone who has read ‘The Secret’ will know about ‘the power of attraction’, in which a person attracts whatever they’re dwelling upon or requesting from the universe – be it positive or negative. Taking this concept in one possible direction, people tend to sense the black clouds of doom and, hence, avoid us when we’re feeling negative, so why can’t the Spanish motorists sense my feelings and simply steer clear of negative ‘ol me and my van? However, I do hold truck with the idea that if you drive along the motorway thinking constantly about crashes, you’re far more likely to have one than if you’re actually concentrating on the damn road!

Remaining with my demeanour concerning Spain, the Spanish citizens and the native lingo, I’m convinced that my most commonly used expression is “mucho malo” (very bad) – a useful catch-all phrase for anything from “it’s gone a bit cloudy –mucho malo!” to “the cashpoint won’t work – mucho malo!” to “my children are misbehaving – mucho malo!”, and so on. I don’t dare tally the daily incidence of this expression as I know it would be into double figures, at least. [N.B. Yes, I know it should be 'muy malo' now thanks to a helpful user comment. :) ]

I also like the expression “un poco loco” (a bit mad). From discussing “el hombre loco” in the Coviran to “mi ninos estan locos” (my kids are mad), it’s so easily and liberally applied. So, am I drawing all that is “bad” and “mad” towards me? And then commenting that it’s “no normal” (not normal) to boot. Hmm!

Perhaps I ought to change my favourite expressions to “muy bien” (very good), “bonita” (beautiful), “excelente” (excellent) and “soy tranquilo” (I’m calm). Perhaps I’ll try this fresh approach for a week and report back here soon...

 

Viva the Family Values of Espana: a.k.a. No Small Children Please, We're English

When I was strolling home from a mate’s house in Lanjaron with my two little boys on Saturday night – one snug in a buggy, the other walking beside me – a group of elderly ladies sitting on a bench waved and smiled at us. It struck me that if we had been traversing an English street at 11pm, local people might be more inclined to call the police and report Mummy for not having the boys in bed by 8pm.

In a similar vein, I was browsing people’s English Facebook status updates recently and one Mum reported that the police had turned up – sirens and all – because she’d left her child sleeping in the car outside her house for a short while. Surely this is a tad heavy handed? If the car door was open and the key in the ignition or the vehicle was parked in bright sunshine, fair enough – remedial action would be required. However, I’ve left my two boys sleeping in the van for 10 minutes occasionally while unloading my shopping here in Spain of an evening (one pair of hands does not carry two tired children and several shopping bags simultaneously!) and I’d be surprised if the Guardia Civil or Local Policia turned up to check us out. And why is that? Because people here are more chilled out towards kids, life and ‘health and safety risk’ in general and they don’t spend their lives obsessing 24/7 about paedophiles and child-snatchers.

Yes, we need to watch out for “nasty people” and make our kids aware that they shouldn’t put themselves in danger. However, the English fixation with monitoring everything and everyone with a fine toothcomb in case there’s a paedophile at large is clearly leading to an unhealthy fascination with the whole subject and causing ‘normal’ upstanding citizens to focus unduly on the topic of child sex, child nakedness, ‘rude’ photos, etc., etc., when they should be focusing on having innocent fun with their offspring instead. I’d even hedge a bet that more of this content is looked up online these days because of the endless publicity it has received. And Brits seem to forget that the odds of having a car accident or being run over in the street are higher than turning into the next unfortunate McCann family. But we don’t all avoid our cars, do we, in case we have a fatal crash on the motorway?

As a friend of mine who used to work in child protection said: “all this focus on who might be a paedophile yet most children are abused by someone they know, not by a stranger”.  And, as a result, kids don’t play outside in England as much as they should: they sit inside using their PS3, watching TV, gorging on pizza and chips and becoming unnecessarily obese.

As well as being gripped by a moral panic concerning other people’s proclivities, in England, kids aren’t allowed to be kids: we’re still partly living in the Victorian “should be seen and not heard” era. I was in a coffee shop in the entrance to the Granada branch of Alcampo (similar to ASDA) the other day and a charity volunteer was giving children swords made out of balloons. Several Spanish kids were rushing around bashing each other with the aforementioned balloon swords and screeching merrily. Imagine if that happened in ASDA? Some disgruntled shopper would surely call security to tick off the parents and ask the kids to pipe down.

OK, so my boys can be noisy and badly behaved at times – they can also bounce off walls if they’ve eaten sugar. And that’s not ideal when it happens outside my own home. But nothing gives English people the divine right to glare at my family because the boys have moved a few metres away from their seats in a cafe or restaurant. My elderly Mum almost freaked out in a Sainsburys cafe in Northumberland because so many fellow diners were staring at the boys in a most unfriendly manner as they checked out their surroundings. Furthermore, it’s unnatural for toddlers to remain seated and perfectly still for the duration of – for example – a two or three course meal. I challenge the ‘starers and glarers’ to do better at ‘child calming’ themselves! Experience demonstrates that this sort of ‘nay saying’ doesn’t happen here in Spain. As long as the kids aren’t tripping up customers or waiters, rolling on the floor, screaming, throwing food around, feeding stray cats, etc., natural movement is simply accepted as “what kids do”. Other customers are more likely to give them a pat on the head or a lolly than make snide comments about “kids being out of control”.  

On my other blog – “Letting off Steam” for the Brighton Argus – I recently mentioned how Spanish people will approach you and get involved if they think your kids are too hot / too cold / need some sort of attention. In England, everyone seems keen to tut tut and express a negative opinion but they steer clear of (for example), telling Mum that it’s dangerous and stupid to place a five month old baby in direct sunlight for several hours on Brighton beach (the baby concerned had to be hospitalised with 20 degree burns). As also stated on my other blog, I feel sure that family-orientated Spanish sunbathers would have spotted the hideous oversight and intervened before it was too late.

So there we have it: good old Blighty! The citizens can continue to maintain a safe distance from the rest of the community while sneering at other people’s parenting abilities and rolling their eyes at kids who are behaving “age appropriately” (i.e. moving around) in a social setting, such as a cafe or pub. And the end result? “Broken binge drinking Britain” where school-age kids need ASBOs, teenagers are overdosing on “meow”, and legislation combined with the pervading culture makes it difficult for one’s family to enjoy a bar snack in a licensed premises after 7pm.

On just about all fronts, Spain has a demonstrably better idea of how to maintain “family values”, methinks. And the Spanish community can stage an event such as the Lanjaron ‘Fiesta de Agua Y Jamon’ in June – where all generations from age zero to 90 celebrate together and a large water fight takes place on the final night – without it descending into an event requiring crowd control, riot police, involvement from social services and/or accidental injury lawyers to handle specialist cases from people who tripped over in their wet flip flops and bruised their ankle. “Viva Espana para la familia”, I say!

Beware the Basking Brits Abroad (and at Home Too)

As a Brit who spends a large chunk of the year in Espana, I enjoy ‘people watching’ other Brits who are here on holiday for a week or so. This may sound slightly snobbish. It’s not intended that way (well, maybe just a tad, ‘guvnor’)*. More accurately, there’s nothing like the opportunity to observe one’s fellow countrymen and women with a fresh pair of eyes, so to speak. And who can miss ‘em when they’re turning themselves a delicate shade of lobster pink at a beach a stone’s throw or three away from here.

In any setting from ‘la playa’ to a tranquil ‘pueblo blanco’, I’d wager that visiting Brits can be instantly identified. And why is that, you may ask? There’s a simple answer: aside from the fact they might be seeking some “nice fish and chips” or “a good English bar”, the Brits are wearing fewer clothes than the local inhabitants and visitors from other parts of Europe.

An English family owns the town house opposite mine (yes, these are the same neighbours I’ve offended with noisy antics in the past) and various members of this clan avail themselves of the property occasionally. Last week, a group of four friendly folks aged around 50 were the latest to visit. I was invited into the house to install a new gas bottle on the cooker. I immediately spotted a large bottle of cheap vodka in the kitchen, as well as the bikinis hanging on the washing line. The four Brits spent every day reposing on their terrace, smothered in sun cream, wearing the aforementioned bikinis and presumably consuming the plonk. Now, don’t get me wrong: there’s nothing wrong with any of this behaviour (I’d indulge in much worse if I didn’t have to work and look after minors) but I found the ‘bathing belles’ an eye-opening contrast to the rest of the townspeople who were wandering about in jeans and cardigans, because it was only 20 degrees C.

While British expats may generally “sit on the terrace” for a while before heading sensibly into the shade, visiting Brits sunbathe endlessly, even if the temperature doesn’t demand extensive removal of clothes. I visited Torre del Mar at the weekend - a bastion of visiting and expat Brits. On the beach, you could easily spot “exhibit B” (B is for British) because the Spanish were wearing shirts and leggings, the Germans sported shirts and shorts and the British favoured... practically nothing. Furthermore, around the Torre del Mar Camping swimming pool, British girls were topless. The pools in Lanjaron and Orgiva - i.e. in my ‘corner’ of La Alpujarra’ - don’t even open until June because it’s considered too cold for open air bathing. Go topless in May in the mountains? Nah.

Getting back to the Torre del Mar Camping (and I’m not sure I’d want to head back there anytime soon), you couldn’t fault the clean and orderly facilities or the politeness of the staff but why do people want to spend their precious week’s annual holiday in the dolled-up equivalent of a car park with a few trees and metal poles deployed to divide the plots? Well, we know the answer: budget. However, away from the beach, budget-conscious campsites with a view exist, such as the ones in Orgiva. My four-year-old son loved the Torre campsite because he could ride his bike endlessly round the perimeter but I hankered for somewhere more secluded (my thoughts wandered to the unspoilt East Dean campsite near Chichester, West Sussex, in the days when it remained a well-kept secret).  

In the morning, we checked out the swimming pool: the one featuring the topless babes and the cold water, which I decided to give a wide berth – brrr! Around the poolside, a rather hectoring English father was dictating the every move of his son of around three years old. While my two boys roamed freely beside the shallow kids’ pool, this little boy was constantly instructed and manoeuvred. I’m sure Daddy wasn’t impressed when my eldest asked him to blow up our inflatable rubber ring. I might not be able to inflate a ring without feeling queasy (this feeling is far worse if I have a lingering hangover, which I didn’t on this occasion) but at least I don’t take the business of a campsite swimming pool Ever So Seriously. Dedicated Daddy was soon brandishing a digital camcorder and had scripted his own short movie, sure to be nominated for an Oscar. As we departed, he was standing in front of the pool performing his dead serious commentary: “Here we are at the Torre del Mar Campsite swimming pool... [name of son] is here...”. I felt sorry for whoever would be forced to view the footage when this British family returned home – especially as Mum had earlier shot Jack or whatever he was called standing on something that hurt his foot and made him cry. Epic content!

After my observations of 'The Brits Abroad’ and a stint on the beach - which was populated by quite a few civilised Spanish holidaymakers, actually - we ventured back to Lanjaron. At this point, I discovered that I’d burnt my back a mild shade of pink – a case of incorrectly applied sun cream. Ahem! What was it that I was saying about British holidaymakers baking to delicate shade of lobster?  This made me think: if Spanish people viewed my family alongside the vacationing British, would they be able to tell any difference, what with my ‘malo’ Spanish pronunciation and predilection for a “nice vino blanco”? Apart from the fact that I might be wearing an extra layer of clothes, I suspect that the answer is “no”.

Meanwhile, Britain has been baking in its own mini heat wave. And what was the result of the masse hysteria regarding temperatures exceeding 24 degrees? The beaches were so rammed that visitors couldn’t see a stone or a shell under all the reddening limbs and there’s been a run on beer and barbeques in the supermarkets. Predictable! Sigh. Enjoy it, folks, as you’re set to plummet back to 10-14 degrees C shortly, depending on how northerly you’re located, and then there’ll be a run to turn the central heating on again.

Hasta luego!

 

* Disclaimer: although the persons mentioned in this blog entry may resemble real people (some of them clearly are real people!), the entry is, overall, a 'cultural study' of Brits abroad in general and not about particular ones. It's also meant to be tongue-in-cheek and most certainly isn't designed to be taken seriously. The author's twisted sense of humour can, at times, go down the 'wrong' way. Although it would be easy to believe that the author is some sort of nasty ol' cow who thinks she's a bit superiour and lurks in social settings waiting to poison-pen everyone in sight, that isn't the case. Honest... guv. The author is just as quick to take the p*ss out of herself as other subjects and it's all in the interests of "dry humour". To anyone who was offended, the author papologises.

 

Driven Round the Bend in Spain?

With the benefit of hindsight, it was a tad out of order for me to moan endlessly about the prospect of returning to Spain just because I find the process a pain. And, yes, I admit to turning into a modern day “Mary Mary Quite Contrary” – how does your garden grow? Uh, I dunno! I understand why the long-suffering lady in the Poohaven Post Office gave me a filthy look when, shortly before swapping countries, I moaned loudly about the Pound/Euro exchange rate and the cost of groceries in Espana. Give or take domestic warfare, kiddie tantrums and Sky box teething problems, at least it is sunny here!

My van, however, clearly isn’t as fond of Espana as the rest of the family. After its bout of entering into “limp mode” on the autovia, it has now sustained a few paint chips on the bonnet (how did that happen?) and it is eating diesel much faster than ever before. Could it be a faulty turbo, the air con consuming fuel like a demon or is ‘mi caminonetta azul’ staging a protest at winding mountain roads and ‘unmade’ tracks (that means “sh*tty, bumpy tracks” to anyone who doesn’t have delicate sensibilities).

A friend of mine who lives in Granada gleefully informed me that her husband - who has recently moved here from Cuba - has passed his Spanish driving test at second attempt. I was bemused to hear about the content of the test, which doesn’t feature a three point turn (this explains why Spanish motorists just can’t do a ‘proper’ turning manoeuvre) but it’s ever so heavy on theory. The candidates must answer stringent questions on all manner of topics such as “what are the effects of heroin and cocaine on the driver” and – my particular favourite – “what are the dimensions of the L plate”, which the driver is expected to display for a year after passing the test. If the candidate doesn’t know the exact dimension of their L plate, they fail the test and must start again. Talk about Spanish bureaucracy. Argh!

To my mind, it seems probable that many Spanish motorists have conducted first-hand research into the effects of cocaine on the driver, and possibly also the effects of Costa (similar to home-brewed sherry) and carajillos (brandy coffee). Judging by the number of bashed-up vehicles in my neighbourhood, the motorists are p*ssed, stoned or haven’t really done a test. Plus they park in particularly selfish places – for example, directly opposite tight bends and bollards – where other vehicles struggle to pass with their wing mirrors and panels intact. Surely these widespread practises are in contravention of the rigorous Spanish driving test. Si?

I once bought a Spanish-plated, second hand Peugeot for 1,500 Euros. This old banger, which was favourable on fuel consumption but spent more time in the garage than on the road, would have cost £200 in England. On the day of purchase, it was parked briefly on the street outside my house, opposite other parked vehicles, for the purpose of unloading. A passing motorist probably assessed that the gap was too narrow to drive through but instead of waiting for us to move the car or sounding his horn, he chanced it anyway and crunched both my passenger side panels, causing two huge dents. Is antisocial motoring behaviour taught in the theory test? I think not! So why is it de rigueur here?

Mi gusta Espana but the driving habits, as well as the sloth-like customer service (we’ll save that for another blog entry – betcha can’t wait!) can drive you round the bend. And my van was certainly happier in England - even if it’s alone in its capacity for preferring the M23 and the A27 to the winding road between Lanjaron and Orgiva.

Cast adrift on memory bliss? Spanish road trip tales and arrival adjustment.

Long time, no post, dear reader. I’ve been neglecting my blogs while getting my proverbial pants in a twist over the recent road/ferry trip from England to Spain. When I was ‘sans ninos’, or when I had just one little baby, I used to hop on to planes without a care in the world. But I’m starting to think that “upheaval is the mother of mis-invention” and I dread the process of packing and loading/unloading, unpacking... half-filled bags everywhere. Argh!

Ship ahoy

Misgivings aside, the sea and land-borne trip was completed last week, thanks to (a) a bickering ‘co-pilot’ who disliked my tendency to play endlessly with Facebook for BlackBerry en route and (b) the Brittany Ferries’ Cap Finistere vessel. Nice ship but shame the swimming pool on the roof was closed and we considered it sinful that there was no ‘middle ground’ for dinner options between haute cuisine and budget sandwiches. A £60 family restaurant dinner didn’t appeal (a meal for four cost us a purse-friendly £22 on P&O’s ‘Pride of Bilbao’ last October) and I felt as if another packet of crisps or pre-packaged wrap might send me overboard. However, breakfast made up for this shortfall, with a decent full English served for 3.95 Euros.  

My preference for Brittany Ferries pervades even though the Cap Finistere had a conspicuous lack of kids’ entertainments. P&O’s ‘Pride of Bilbao’ has a well-run kids’ club but it’s unfortunately located directly opposite the shop which features bumper packs of Minstrels and Smarties at kiddie grabbing height. The Cap Finistere is a better class of ship and the crossing is 12 hours shorter than on P&O, which means there’s less time to waste money on food and drink. Furthermore, there were no ‘booze croozers’ or gnarly old ladies tutting at my toddlers.  However, I was chatted up by a dodgy Spanish bloke in the ‘nightclub bar’. Despite obvious glares from the barmaid, he bought me two glasses of vino blanco and then tried to hand me his spare room key. “Oooh nooo!” I whinnied. “I’ve got another adult in the cabin and two small children.” I was duly escorted back to my cabin by a tattooed bloke – it was definitely time to flee.

Road trip rage

After disgorging from the ferry (helpful hint: note the location of your vehicle in the parking decks to avoid searching for it amongst fume-laden articulated lorries while fully loaded with toddlers and luggage), it was time to head south from Santander to Granada Province. Map reading is an activity that can strain even the calmest of relationships and my relationship with the ‘co-pilot’ can hardly be described as ‘tranquilo’. He was disgusted by my tendency to look at my mobile instead of the map, which resulted in us driving in the wrong direction on the autovia for at least an hour. Oops.

Many hours and a slight van fault later (it kept going into “limp mode”, which is never desirable, ladies and gents), we arrived in La Alpujarra in the ‘dead’ of the night. Although I was fearful to inspect my Spanish house after hearing tales of the trail of mould, dog poo and sick-covered towels left by dodgy tenants, I discovered that the wreckage was confined to a ruined set of pans, clearly used as chip pans, and three missing wooden child chairs, presumably incinerated in the wood-burning stove during winter.  So no hideous surprises there – although burning kids’ chairs is beyond the pale, really. What Is Wrong With Some People?

Adjusting to La Alpujarra

It takes me a few days to adjust to a new environment. After almost a week in La Alpujarra, one thing that strikes me is: I want Tesco Direct back. Instead of spending 20mins on an online shopping cart from the comfort of my own home, on Saturday evening it took five hours to visit Granada Carrefour for the family’s weekly food shop. Thrilling, ey? My two little boys were bored after an hour and proceeded to graze the produce. They enjoyed a baguette and strawberries by the pescaderia (fish counter); a whole box of chopped sausage by the ham counter; some Baby Bels by the cracker counter; a Gatorade in the condiment aisle; a strawberry milk drink beside the frozen goods... and then my youngest started screaming for sweeties beside the checkout. Oh dear!

This is where it All Started Going Wrong. My normally patient eldest son suddenly announced “I need a poo and I need it now, Mummy!” and started placing his hands down the back of his trousers – not a good sign. Trying not to abandon either child or lose my place in the long queue, I ushered my eldest towards the toilets then asked some Spanish people to watch my youngest, who was still creating a fuss in the trolley. I then followed my eldest to the loo but couldn’t see him anywhere. After a heart-stopping moment, he emerged near the checkouts and we resumed our place in the queue, whereupon he duly “entertained” the Spanish shoppers by throwing a large pineapple at the conveyor belt and loudly playing a mouth organ pinched from Daddy. Muttering “mucho tiempo en la tienda” and looking red faced, I stuffed groceries into plastic bags, aware that I looked like a lost-it single mother case who couldn’t control her children. Meanwhile, my youngest was still screaming and gesticulating at sweeties, while the well-behaved Spanish toddlers viewed the spectacle with bemusement. By this time, it was 11pm. I ushered my boys into the MacDonalds concession, where several Spanish kiddies were playing on the indoor play frame. Can you imagine that in England? Someone would probably call Social Services if you took your toddlers into MacDonalds after 8pm.

Will I stay or will I go?

The dust of the journey has settled now. But after having the dullest weekend I can remember in a long time, and with considerations about my sons’ education in the UK, I’m unsure whether I’ll remain in Spain for summer or go back to Blighty in mid May. Is it the people or the place that count most? After giving the matter 'mucho' consideration, I’d say it’s the people. I prefer it here in Spain: besides the climate, there’s more room in ‘mi casa’ for the kids to play and, well, the lifestyle’s more laid back, innit.  Not forgetting the cheap vino and the cheaper diesel. But my closest old mates and constant companions are in England and that counts for something. Furthermore, moving around with two toddlers and juggling such undertakings with work certainly takes it out of you. Watch this space... will I stay or will I go now... if I stay, there will be trouble... if I go, it will be double. Or will it just turn into a prolonged episode of ‘The Simple Life’. And is that what I really, really want anyway? Watch this space...

Something for nothing and the chips are free?

As mentioned in previous blog entries, I’m a big fan of charity shopping as well as car boot sales, known as ‘rastros’ in Spain. Much of my wardrobe consists of the fruits of this relatively harmless hobby, which sometimes become the ‘victims’ of my various dye and bleach bath experimentations. Occasionally I worry about hoarding but you can always give garments back to the charity shop if they lose their appeal.

 

The charity shop habit can’t be properly indulged in Spain, however, because the second hand goods sector hasn’t been widely developed in Andalucia. The only outlet of this type I’ve encountered is the “mujeres shop” (women’s rescue charity shop) in Orgiva. Often, Spanish people chuck unwanted and sometimes unworn clothing items into the municipal bin or the skip and yours truly has been known to dish out designer kiddies’ clothing and shoes (this may sound disgusting but the haul and smiling faces of the recipients were well worth it).

 

While in East Sussex, I enjoy visiting numerous charity shops, especially those in Hove, Lewes or round the corner from my house in Poohaven. Unlike the charity shops in central Brighton, the Poohaven ones often charge £2 for pristine items from good labels. I’m a big fan of one particular local charity shop which has better-than-usual bargains and I enjoy my weekly forage in there.

 

The other day, I ventured into this shop and headed to the bargain rail. You might imagine this rail would accommodate dodgy holiday-wear resembling the vile, pastel-coloured garments worn by the presenters of kids’ show, ‘Hi 5’. But lo and behold – an immaculate Paul Smith skirt priced at £1 was awaiting my custom. Feeling vaguely pleased, I wandered over to the till.

 

“You’re back in here again,” said the 50-something woman assistant. I wasn’t sure if she was being ‘witty’ or she actually thought I should stay away to give other shoppers a chance of bagging the best bargains. Raising an eyebrow slightly, I said: “I love it in here. It’s great. You can buy designer labels for £1, like this Paul Smith skirt.” The woman glared at me as if I’d said, “I enjoy indulging in bizarre, public sexual practices” and she snarled “I don’t do designer labels”. I calmly suggested that with some quality labels, such as Paul Smith or Karen Millen, the garments are well made and hang on the body in a flattering way. It was no good: the woman looked as if she wanted to hang yours truly instead of the clothes. You can’t win ‘em all and perhaps she thinks I swan about wearing D&G and Burberry before dressing down to raid the charity shop bargain rail.

 

For some reason, I keep thinking about the Dire Straights song, ‘Money for Nothing’, which features the lyric “and the chips are free”.

 

This brings me neatly to the subject of Zynga Poker, another one of those immersive, interactive, community games for Facebook members. If FarmVille wasn’t enough – sheesh – I’ve recently become aware that the online poker game is arguably more addictive than pornography: at least this is the case with the online user I know best. Plus, from what I’ve seen looking over player’s shoulders, the online chat facility seems to attract a fair few stalkery types who have nothing better to do than exchange inane banter for hours on end. Are the chips free or the chicks free? Should the mass poker experiment really be encouraged? Whatever, I’m still of the opinion that Facebook has “a lot to answer for these days” and I believe that penning a more extensive work on this topic could be the way ahead for me in summer 2010. Perhaps it will all change if Facebook is no longer free of charge. There’s always a payback in the end, methinks, whether it’s hours/days/weeks/years of wasted time or a fledgling gambling addiction. Watch this space!

Play Park Ponderings (and a Privet Ring for Perverts?)

As I sit here in not-so-sunny Poohaven* contemplating the bitter North wind, the Pound heading back towards parity with the Euro (“amongst a basket of currencies, the Pound is a basket case,” said my colleague) and my status as a permanent laundry maid to shall children, I can take solace in the fact that there’s only two more working days left until the weekend and then it’s play park time.

It may sound sad but the adult and kiddie visits to the Kemp Town play park on Saturday afternoons are becoming one of the week’s highlights. On a Saturday, there’s no need to spend the morning cajoling the Terrible Toddlers into getting ready for nursery (“but Mummy, I don’t like these trousers /shoes/socks, etc.... but Mummy, I don’t want to go to nursery... grizzle, grizzle...”). Instead, I can have a relaxing morning shuffling about at my own pace before joining my friends and their offspring in an area where (a) the adults can enjoy snacks, coffees, beer and wine, (b) the kiddies can run around, ride their bikes and scooters and play on safety-tested equipment and (c) the kiddies cannot escape. I like option (c) best of all. Let’s repeat it... THEY CANNOT ESCAPE.

Ah, so the adults can sit calmly on a bench and drink their coffee or beer while the kids run around safely. The only thing that’s missing, as far as I’m concerned, is a selection of eligible single fathers to chat up while the kiddies play. However, eligible single fathers are few and far between: the play park is the domain of mums of all varieties, it seems.

It always strikes me that the Brighton play parks, with their safety gates and spongy floor materials, are in complete contrast to the Spanish play parks where health and safety rules were clearly not considered at design stage. My local play park in Spain features large gaps in the fence which enable the Terrible Toddlers to escape on to the main road. On one occasion, my youngest son clambered straight through a gap and was almost on the road before I could squeeze my larger frame through and grab him. This particular play park also features a bizarre, round, hedged area in the middle - like the centre of a mini maze. You can’t see the kids but they can see you. “It’s for perverts to hide in,” the father of my children quipped with black humour. Still, he may have a point. I’m fairly convinced that a similar type of privet feature would be banned from play parks in paedophile-obsessed England.

Thinking of the play parks I use in Spain, it’s not just a case of holes in the fence and dodgy hedge rings: they don’t provide toilets. If the nearby bars are shut and one of the Terrible Twosome needs a “number two”, I’ve got a hideous logistical problem on my hands. In particular, those who have recently been potty trained aren’t known for their patience in loo-finding. On one occasion, I fashioned our own ‘portaloo’ behind the concealment of a helpful tree using a rolled-out nappy. This is hardly an ideal method of upholding hygiene but when needs must, I suppose.

At Spanish play parks, when there’s a gate at the entrance, the Spanish mums tend to leave it open. I can’t understand the reasoning behind this lax behaviour but I had good cause to contemplate it on one notable occasion as I chased my eldest son out of the open gate and on to the road. Perhaps the Spanish kids are better behaved and, hence, less inclined to bolt on to roads?

In Andalucia, during the last two to three years, there has been considerable investment in play park equipment for adults. The strange selection of equipment is based around the fitness machines commonly found in gyms but it more closely resembles kids’ play kit and is built in bright, primary colours. So we have a walking-type machine, a machine to exercise your upper arms, etc. Although I’ve occasionally seen elderly ladies using the equipment, it’s a big hit amongst teenage girls. There’s nothing like the sight of sylph-like teenagers exercising in hot pants to make the over 30s mums bolt back to the kiddies’ play area.

When I was visiting the GP surgery in Poohaven yesterday with the Toddler Twosome, more than a fair share of the adults were obese and one lady was morbidly obese. It was frightening to think of their dietary habits. Are they sitting on their sofas all day eating fried Mars Bars and waffles smeared in lard or what? Perhaps we need an adult play park here in Poohaven. Although I suspect the North Wind and proliferation of disaffected youths would quickly chase the obese adults back indoors.

* I mean Newhaven, East Sussex - no, I don't live in Peacehaven.

How to complain in Spain

The other day, I took a friend who was visiting from England to see the pretty mountain villages of Capilera and Bubion, which are geared up for the tourist trade. In Capilera, we ventured into a gift shop that had attractive-looking sandals and a selection of toys outside: the kids’ stuff was displayed on the ground in wicker baskets. My two sons, aged 21 months and three, were captivated by the goods and picked up some wooden guns, toys that rattled and plastic flowers that whirl in the wind. Almost immediately, the proprietor, a miserable looking Spanish lady of about 40, came out and started wagging her finger at us. She grabbed at the plastic flower with a look of utter horror and re-installed it in the correct part of the display. I told my older son to put the wooden gun down but he had clocked the proprietor’s grizzly manner and started handling other toys in a defiant way: who could blame him, really, when they were accessible on the ground and looked so colourful. Up to that point, I had planned to buy the boys a small gift each but quickly decided that I couldn’t possibly give my dinero to misery-guts. We left the shop to escape the visible snarling and the proprietor followed us out, muttering something that sounded unpleasant.

I was surprised at this treatment, which not only lost the proprietor at least 10 Euros worth of sales but also ensured that my family and friends would never ‘darken her door’ again. Plus I’ve already spread the word about what shop to avoid in Capilera.

However, this isn’t an isolated incident: poor customer service is a regular occurrence in Spain. Speaking personally, I’ve had goods scanned through the supermarket checkout at incorrect prices; items from other people’s food and drink bills added to mine; a gas cooker with three rings supplied instead of the paid-for unit with four rings (I didn’t realise until after it had been installed); a Vodafone wireless dongle that worked for one month out of the seven or eight billed at 40 Euros each; and a cooker door that broke three months after installation and it has taken four months of contacting the supplier to secure a replacement.

Friends have reported similar problems, including a washing machine that was found to be dud immediately after purchase: the company that sold it took it away and then did nothing, leaving a single mother of three without any means of doing her laundry.  I’ve also heard plenty of tales concerning incorrect bills sent by phone and electricity companies: informing the culprit about the problem doesn’t always result in a rapid ‘solution’.

Last week, I visited Nick Auvache of Solve Orgiva, an agency that helps expats with their problems. He says that, in Spain, there has been a tradition of “banging on the desk” if you want to complain, or using threats such as “I know your mother”. This reminds me of the water meeting in Canar where the village elders bang their sticks on the floor if they don’t like the outcome regarding how much water they’ve been allocated. However, for the British expat who’s probably accustomed to conducting a polite discussion with a supplier that has made a mistake, fist and stick banging may not be the desired answer to “my cooker / telephone contract / wireless dongle doesn’t work”. According to Nick, now that Spanish customer service issues are handled electronically, rather than people using local outlets and using personal threats, there’s not much of a tradition of dealing with complaints in a proper way. He says: “Técnicos (technicians) don’t want to admit that they don’t know something. It’s not a focused problem-solving approach.”

So, a few words of advice to avoid certain problems occurring or to ensure you’re not in a weak position:

· Always check your receipt to ensure that items appear at the correct price and haven’t been entered multiple times. You can demand that an item is sold for the price marked on the shelf, not the price scanned at the checkout. Beware of discount offers which may not scan correctly. If you return home and find that an error has occurred, phone customer services and ask them to access the details on their computer system so the mistake can be rectified remotely.

 

· If you’re unhappy with the service you’re receiving, ask for an ‘oja de reglamaciones’ (official complaint form). The proprietor is subject to a 6,000 Euro fine if they don’t make the form available to customers. If the form is absent, say that you’re going to fetch a municipal policeman to report the offence.

 

· If you’re cancelling a utility contract, always put it in writing. If you phone the company, ask to speak to an operative in person, rather than leaving a message on an automated system. Keep a journal of the calls you’ve made.

 

· Ask a utility or phone company to email you its guidelines before ordering a new service. If they don’t have any guidelines, be concerned.

· If you’ve bought substandard goods, guidelines exist as to the maximum time the vendor can take to carry out a repair. Under the 1999/4/EC directive, goods sold – if defective – must be repaired within a “reasonable” time. This varies with the nature of the goods - for example, tools bought by a workman that affect his daily business may require a more urgent repair than consumer electronics bought for leisure usage - but it does give you scope to complain.

As for grumpy assistants and those who deliberately ignore you, as my ex used to say “why work in a public-facing role if you hate the public”? I recollect the proprietor of a local Spanish store ignoring me when I was about six months pregnant and had ventured inside to buy a 150 Euro mattress.  At the time, I was feeling a tad dizzy and nauseous in the heat of the day. However, ignoring my condition, the proprietor preferred to continue her conversation with a Spanish lady, while I genuinely feared that I may pass out and sink to the floor. In the end, I left in disgust and ordered a mattress from Al Campo (equivalent of ASDA), which failed to deliver it after two months of phone calls to see what problem had occurred (they never had it in stock). And the conclusion?  I bought a mattress in England from eBay for much less money and shipped it to Spain in my van.

My experiences have led me to believe that it pays to complain in Spain – don’t let the language barrier stand in your way and don’t be put off because it’s tedious. If problems occur pre-purchase, such as you’re being ignored, vote with your feet and take your custom elsewhere: after all, there are some businesses here that won’t mess you around.

Noised up by the UK news / Nanny State strikes again... yawn!

It’s bad enough that the English media bangs on endlessly about the recession which, in my opinion, has done nothing to aid recovery in Blighty – it has simply given consumers another reason to keep their money in their wallets instead of, for example, helping the manufacturing sector by buying a few ‘white goods’. As well as telling people what to think and do, now the Nanny State rears its ugly head once again and tells us what to watch...

In Little England, we always have to pull up the drawbridge and find someone to blame for our woes. Not enough jobs? Must be down to immigrants. Recession? Blame the b/wankers (delete as appropriate). Well yes, they did have a lot to do with it but so did the culture of living on credit and nobody forced individuals at gunpoint to take on debt.

And now there’s the recommendation by the British Medical Association that all alcohol advertising should be banned in an attempt to combat binge and youth drinking. On the news last night, viral marketing was criticised because, for example, some teenage girls copied the Lambrini dance on You Tube. OK, that’s not ideal but it didn’t mean they went on to drink the stuff just because they replicated a few ‘cool’ dance steps.

Britain’s drink problem is down to more than just advertising. Surely there should be an attempt to curb whoever is supplying alcohol to young people these days: whether parents are handing it over or off-licenses are failing to perform age checks. ‘Nanny Stating’ us so we can’t view – for example – those silly Smirnoff ads where voddie drinkers are dressed up in debauched-looking fancy dress costumes having a night they’ll “never forget” is hardly going to deter Male Vertical Volume Drinkers chucking up at 2am, stressed-out mums necking multiple bottles of vino after the kiddies have gone to bed, and gals on hen nights downing everything in sight while wearing ridiculous L-plates. Methinks it’s the long-standing culture in Britain that causes this type of drinking, not the industry’s advertising and its sponsorship of music and sporting events.

If more pubs allowed families inside, as they do in Spain, perhaps binge drinkers would be deterred from their anti-social and personally-damaging activities. In this part of Andalucia, binge drinking isn’t an established part of the culture: the vino and cerveza (beer) would be mopped up by tapas long before people started ‘bottling’ each other and brawling in the street. Families go out together: there isn’t a proliferation of bars with happy hours full of 20-somethings drinking as much as they can, as quickly as they can. Although alcohol is cheap, people aren’t lurching around being sick and peeing themselves in the street. I hark back to the incident when I was asked to remove myself and my first son (aged two at the time) from a civilised cafe bar in central Brighton at 2pm on a Thursday afternoon because the licensing regulations decreed “no children present”, even though food was being served and we were quietly taking in the scene. Obviously, it’s better to have drunkards lurching around and the families with kids should be consigned to McDonalds instead.

It strikes me that, in Britain, people aren’t held personally responsible for their own failure to remain healthy in their nutrition and drinking habits. And the fact that they can’t be bothered to cook decent meals is clearly someone else’s fault too. Perhaps adverts for burgers and chocolate be banned in an attempt to curb NHS spend on treating obesity problems, which are also rising? And that’s not all. Back in March, I was refused kiddies’ cough medicine by three different chemists: the rules from BMA had changed to disallow supply to children aged under two, with guidance for children under seven, (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-546909/Cough-medicine-banned-children-100-remedies-taken-shelves.html) because some parents can’t read the instructions and administer incorrect doses. So rather than educating ignorant individuals, the answer is to Nanny us with a blanket ban for our nought and one year olds instead. Meaning that parents who can actually read the label are forced to endure a sleepless night watching their infants cough endlessly. In Spain, antibiotics are freely available over the counter in the pharmacies because adults are trusted to administer them in a proper way. And cough medicine and expectorants for infants are allowed – again, people are trusted to read the darn label.

From irritating to sad... according to an article in yesterday's Daily Mail, we Brits aren’t just uncontrollable drinkers and personally irresponsible for our actions but we’ve lost our passion in the bedroom too. According to a recently launched book, ‘Why Women Have Sex’, based on a survey of 1,000 women, reasons for nookie include “to shut him up”, “because he took me for a meal” and – what a killer - “because he’ll take the rubbish out”. Hmm. No wonder Brits feel compelled to binge drink with all this personal accountability, fun and romance going on in their lives!