How do the Spanish know I'm not Spanish (without me speaking a word)?

There are some cultural things which are fantastically wonderful to observe when you move to a new country. Some are distinct and easy to spot and others are more subtle and make me wonder whether it’s a cultural distinction or just a peculiarity that I have as an individual or that I have inherited from a sometimes eccentric mother...
How do the Spanish know I’m not Spanish (without me speaking a word?)
1. There are lots more zebra crossings here in Spain than in the U.K. possibly because people walk a lot more in the warmer climate so there is a lot more pedestrian traffic here. Anyway, they’re everywhere, street corners, any place you may possibly want to cross the street in fact and it is obligatory, when you’re driving, to stop for pedestrians who are waiting to cross. When I am a pedestrian myself and a driver has stopped for me, I always like to give them a little cheerful wave and smile, or if I’m busy just a quick flick of the hand as an acknowledgement that they have stopped for me. When I’m driving and I stop, the Spanish just seem to walk across without even glancing up at me in the car, waiting for a little smile or nod.
So the question is, is my acknowledging little wave a very British thing or is it just old style gratitude and manners as taught by mother?
2. I like to eat my lunch at mid day and my dinner between 5 and 7. This is terrifically early by Spanish standards and they are probably eating their dinner while I am warmly snuggled up in bed...which leads to the next point...
3. I like to be in bed by 10.30 at the VERY latest and that’s when the night life here is at its very early stages, many Spanish people are eating their main meal of the day at this time and will be socialising or partying through the night.
4. My Spanish is adequate now and I can understand most things for day to day existence. However, occasionally I will encounter a Spanish person with a strong accent (think Spanish equivalent of strong Liverpool or Middlesborough or Scottish accent) and my face when they say a simple thing must be a real picture of absolute incomprehension...then they know I’m not Spanish
5. As above when some Spanish people become animated or excited or angry and they seem to speak at the most terrific speed and I cannot possibly follow the rapid stream of Spanish...my face says it all
6. At the moment it’s quite chilly in the mornings, so when I wake up I layer up, t shirt, thick jumper, thicker jumper...then by 11am, when it’s warmed up a bit, I am absolutely boiling, especially in the car with the sun streaming in through the windows. I need to adapt the way I dress for this climate with one thin layer and then a very warm coat or jumper on top
7. I don’t normally double kiss acquaintances when I see them, friends yes, but not parents at a birthday party...so the Spanish know I’m not ‘one of them’ by the hearty ‘British’ handshake
8. At British birthday parties, at a certain age, parents are delighted to be able to drop off the children for two hours of child free shopping or football watching before returning to collect the kid(s). In Spain, the parents stay with the children, have a drink, maybe a beer, a few snacks and socialise...it’s kind of nice but at the same time it can be like a three hour Spanish lesson for me and by the end of the party I am eager to escape from brain drain of thinking in Spanish for three hours and shouting children, so I often leave as soon as is reasonably polite (in my mind) whilst the Spanish parents seem happy to stay and socialise forever...bear in mind here that some Spanish kids’ parties are in the evening, after work, from 5.30 until 8.30...by 8 o clock at night I’m sure my face just says weariness to the Spanish parents as I beat my hasty, tired retreat.
How do I know I’m not Spanish?
1. I marvel at the beautiful weather every day
2. I am constantly surprised at how kind the people are...my neighbours have already helped me to register at a medical centre, change the water bill to my name, buy fabrics from a haberdashery, harvest our olives and prune the trees. A colleague at school took kilos of olives to be pressed because he knew where the press place was. The plumber has been to sort a number of teething problems with the plumbing in the house and not charged us once. The man who built our house, when asked if he could put in another door at the back, said yes. When told that we couldn’t afford to do the work yet, he offered to pay for the door and we could pay him back when we could afford it...
3. I find it very funny that the Spanish have particular words for a snack at mid morning and an afternoon snack
4. I find the noise levels and the chatter volume at parties, the school dining room and restaurants surprisingly loud
5. I love it when my children are complimented and patted and generally adored by Spanish people, just because they are children
6. I still smile when I am welcomed at the fish shop or the dry cleaners with an ‘ Ola Guapa’ or ‘Hello beautiful’ from the old lady in the shop
7. I marvel at the beautiful weather every day (Yes, I know that was number one on this list, but I want to say it again)

Seamus O’Hanlon’s lucky day - a true story

Seamus O’ Hanlon was a very lucky man, the luck of the Irish of course, born in sight of the Blarney Stone, full of joy with his life: a story to tell at every given opportunity. The night before he’d had a good old round of luck in his poker game with the boys. They only played for 1 riyal notes mind, not wanting to fall out with friends. Nonetheless, he’d won a fair few games and as he counted the notes that he’d stuffed into the pockets of his shorts the night before, he could see that he had a decent amount, maybe a hundred and twenty notes, all in ones, which was a bit of an unwieldy wedge in his wallet but he was planning on spending it, so no concerns there.
It was the Eid holiday, so Seamus knew that the mall would be fairly quiet at 10 o clock in the morning. The locals would have had a very late night celebrating Eid with family and friends, eating late into the night and sleeping in, so he didn’t expect there to be many locals in the shops at all. Maybe a few Westerners enjoying the holiday with a bit of consumerist gratification. A couple of people wanting to escape the blazing heat by shopping maybe. Seamus still banked on the fact that the mall would be quiet. Quiet enough to venture out with the kids to get them some new trainers without having to worry too much about crowds. He could take the kids and give the wife a lie in, get some trainers for the kids with his poker money and earn some brownie points with the wife at the same time. Yes, it was a good plan.
He had a quick scan at the news before he left. Same old nonsense on the TV about terrorism and fear. The war on terror with no real explanation of what the terror was, only an implication of blame. Seamus couldn’t believe that some people at home listened to that nonsense. He felt lucky to live in the Middle East, happy and healthy and, he wouldn’t exactly describe himself as wealthy, or affluent, but comfortable financially, yes, with a nice little tax free income to soften life’s financial burdens...
The kids couldn’t find their decent sandals, so he threw their old scuffed flip flops on their feet. They were only off to the Mall, it wouldn’t matter. He was a bit hung over from the night before and he didn’t want to disturb the wife either, so they left the house in a quick flurry without brushing his daughter’s hair. His son’s t shirt was on inside out too but Seamus didn’t really mind. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, it was hot. Not too hot yet, the early morning sun was just comfortable and the kids were happy in their flip flops and their scruffy clothes for playing in.
The mall was as quiet as he’s anticipated; he’d been right about Eid. It was a family day, a day for charity and food and celebration. He found the shop he wanted for the kids’ trainers and they quickly tried them on. The two kids were blonde haired and drew the usual friendly good natured glances from shop keepers. As he walked up to pay, Seamus noticed a woman in an abaya in the shop. She had noticed his daughter and was giving her a crinkly smile; the kids were used to seeing women in abayas after living in the Middle East for the last three years, so his daughter smiled back at the woman and greeted her in Arabic.
Seamus went to the till to pay; he knew his children were safe in the shop, especially under the watchful eye of a friendly Muslim woman. He reached the counter with the shoes and smiled to himself as he realised his poker earnings would pay the bill. The shop assistant asked for the money and Seamus smiled again as he counted out the one riyal notes. It took a while to count the hundred and twenty five but he reached the total eventually and handed over the cash to the slightly bewildered assistant who was more used to cards than cash and certainly not used to being paid in one riyal notes. He was ready to go and turned to find the kids. The lady in the abaya had found what she wanted and was behind him in the line. She’d seen him pay in ones and gave him a friendly smile. He saw her glance at the children’s feet and at his son’s inside out t shirt and felt a momentary twinge of embarrassment because although the abaya is not the most beautiful garment in the world, being basically an all over black sheet, even with Seamus’ unpractised eye, he could see that her abaya was rather wonderful, with intricate embroidery in gold thread decorating the front. He looked at the kids in their flip flops and gave the woman a sheepish smile, lifting his carrier bag as if to indicate that he was really a good father, buying new shoes for his kids.
He smiled once more as he left the shop, ready for home and a grateful wife, ready for a dip in the pool with the kids maybe. This was a lucky, sunny life. He was a little startled when the shop assistant grasped him quickly by the shoulder outside the store. Seamus wondered if he’s miscounted the notes. The shop keeper was in fact grasping the notes, all one hundred and twenty five, in his hand. Seamus hoped the boys hadn’t been teasing him with forgeries. The shop assistant caught his breath; he’s obviously had to run to catch up Seamus and the kids. Then he explained that the lady in the abaya had paid for the shoes. He was returning Seamus’ money and he thrust the notes back into Seamus’ hand with an enormous grin.
Seamus grinned back but felt a little puzzled...why had the woman in the abaya paid for his children’s shoes? Then he looked at his kids, two blonde haired kids in their playing clothes and scruffy flip flops, his son with his inside out t shirt and his daughter’s unbrushed hair. The shop assistant was repeating a word that Seamus couldn’t quite understand, until his daughter piped up “Eid, Dad, he’s saying Eid”. Seamus smiled at the man, said thank you and shook his hand. It was Eid, the day of charity. The woman in the abays thought that he’s been saving his one riyal notes until he could afford to buy new shoes for his kids. Her charitable act of Eid was to buy the shoes for him. Seamus smiled again as he stuffed the notes back in his pocket, ready for next week’s poker game...

The Fires of Domestic Bliss (not an advert for Jamie Oliver, honest)

I’m not the most domesticated woman in the world. I never move the furniture when I bother to hoover and many of my clothes are bought specifically because they don’t need to be ironed. Cooking is something to be completed to fulfil my nutritional needs although I do like to be aesthetically pleased by my food too...now that’s not a great combination when you’re a lazy cook, as I am...unless you are lucky enough to be married to a more than competent and happy to cook husband.
Yes, lucky me, I haven’t needed to cook in the past because I’ve had a great husband to do it for me. Now, I don’t want to be too misleading here. I can cook fairly adequately, I’m just a bit haphazard and disorganised in my approach and, therefore, I’ve had some great memorable disasters in the kitchen. These include an attempt (over ambitious in hindsight) to make a fabulous whole orange in the middle chocolate cake from a Jamie Oliver recipe (don’t we all love Jamie?) for my best friend Amanda’s wedding celebration. The whole thing collapsed, leaving a rather sad looking chocolate smeared orange in the middle. The chocolate flavoured goo that surrounded the orange was delicious, but it could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a beautiful cake!!
I have also served pizza with cabbage (for want of any other vegetable for the kids) which husband teases me about to this very day...don’t know why because the children ate it and so did I...
When I worked quite long hours in a demanding job, my husband took care of the home and kids for a few blissful years, then he took a job and occasionally would be unable to cook dinner. These are fondly known as my pesto years because the staple evening meal became pasta with pesto sauce. Thankfully, the children adore my pasta pesto sauce and ‘green pasta’ became the children’ favourite dish!
Then, horror of horrors, my husband applied for his own great job, complete with long hours and I am now working part time...which means that I am home first, which means that I am on food duty. Now the first few months were a bit haphazard in terms of food preparation. I was devoid of ideas and after a lengthy kitchen absence seemed to have forgotten how to make anything bar green pasta.
Luckily, my wonderful mother in law informed me about Jamie Oliver’s new book (we love you Jamie). Mother in law had been watching the 30 minute meals programme and extolled its virtues, so we bought the book.
Needless to say, Jamie is a genius (despite my failure with the orange chocolate cake from many moons ago) and I am a convert to the 30 minute meal regime. I have tried a range of recipes with some fab results. The kids like the food and so do I.
I am now happy to call myself a domestic goddess, almost on a par with Nigella but without the cleavage and with a bit more fire...we have had a small blazing adventure with one dish.
The meal involved baking parchment and filo pastry and the oven, shall we just say that I set the oven on fire and we had a blazing conflagration in the kitchen which the children really enjoyed and I stared at open mouthed. Thankfully competent chef (AKA husband) was around to quench the fire quickly and save parts of the pie, so our dinner was only a little bit burnt and not smouldering at all. And there was only a little bit of burning baking parchment floating around the kitchen. And we weren’t completely overwhelmed by the smoke. And the phrase ‘don’t try this at home’ did keep popping into my mind in a semi-hysterical way. The pie was good, it was eaten and I still insist that I am a domestic goddess, complete with fiery flames in the background and me dancing in the foreground a la “Tales of the Unexpected” opening titles.


*If you don’t understand that reference you can you tube Tales of the Unexpected opening titles!!

The joys and frustrations of motherhood

So, you spend a great proportion of your life single, childhood (hopefully secure, joyous and generally sentimentally lovely) followed by irresponsible youth. Probably lots of fun, too much drinking, talking to strangers in bars, dancing and falling down. Then at some stage in your life you decide or accidentally have kids and suddenly you become this harried individual....
Of course I remember that I was once a child but I am not naturally a patient individual and so the endless demands of children can be quite a trial, especially when my 5 year old shouts loudly from the toilet ‘Finished’, which means that she wants me to wipe her bum after she’s finished her ‘poo’. We’re breaking this habit now that she is at school because she has the co-ordination to be able to wipe her own bum and her arms are long enough to reach...I still feel guilty sometimes though when she’s dressed in some elaborate puffy frock and she can’t co-ordinate her petticoat with the toilet bowl and the toilet paper all at the same time and she’s been shouting for 3 minutes and I’ve been ignoring her and when I arrive she is a flurry of petticoat and toilet paper and trying desperately not to get her dress wet...
Anyway, my children like to play when they’re sent upstairs to brush their teeth in the morning. This is fair enough because they’re kids after all. Playing dinosaurs or farms or battles is far more fun than brushing teeth. Nevertheless, I still would like them to keep to the ten minute deadline so that they can be ready to be picked up to get to school on time....
This morning, they spent 15 minutes ‘brushing their teeth’ until I arrived to be told that they hadn’t even started yet. The lift was about to arrive to take them to school and my daughter still needed to have her hair plaited (5 year old skills do not stretch to plaiting yet)...so I got a bit cross. I plaited daughter’s hair whilst my son tidied away the toys from the morning play. Some toys are designed for maximum childhood pleasure and maximum parent annoyance, three such toys are Mr. Potato Head, Lego and Playmobil because they have lots and lots of teeny tiny pieces that the children like to get out and leave stranded around the house for adult feet to stub painfully on or for the Hoover to loudly suck up. I have managed to artfully ‘lose’ Mr. Potato head in a recent house move, but I do enjoy the other two toys almost as much as the children (apart from the tidying up). This morning, the culprit was Playmobil, but my son is pretty good at understanding deadlines and lateness, so he scrabbled up all the teeny tiny pieces super quickly. Thankfully managed to get them all ready in the nick of time with only a few cross words from me.
I breathed a sigh of relief when they were off to school, leaving me to tidy the kitchen and find two little play figures left on the kitchen counter...a playmobile man embracing a giraffe...and they reminded me that in amongst feeling harried and busy and tired by children and Lego and Playmobil, we are also constantly delighted by their innocence and joy.

The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

This book seems to be infused throughout with a plaintive sadness. Now that may sound like a bad thing, but it’s not really because you have to admire an author who can evoke a sentiment consistently without making the reader feel totally depressed! It’s a novel about love and loss, childhood and old age. Some aspects of the plot towards the end are slightly convoluted and contrived but I forgave the author because of the quality of the characterisation. I loved both narrative voices so much by the end that I didn’t mind that Krauss was seemingly making me leap through hoops of belief in order that they could eventually meet.
There are elements of magic in the book and a preoccupation with death which is almost inevitable when the two main characters are a Jewish man who escaped from the Nazis, leaving his friends behind and a girl whose father has died. These themes lead inevitably to the book being infused with sadness. Nonetheless, it deals with sadness well, and with grief in a manner that balances sentiment with style.

The Plumber

I liked the plumber; he was a chubby, avuncular man, almost like a fully grown baby with those pinchable chubby cheeks. The neat, greying beard kind of limited the baby comparison but he was still a lovely man. He had been to the house a few times before to help us out with minor plumbing questions. The reason we used him was because he had done all the plumbing when the house was built, he was familiar with the layout of the pipes and the idiosyncrasies of the house.
Despite this familiarity with the house and its plumbing and increasingly me and the husband and the two noisy kids, he was consistently polite. He always asked permission to enter the bathrooms or go up the stairs, even if we were cooking dinner or berating the children for their noise and chaos. He always checked that we were ok with him wandering around; he was old school chivalrous that way.
The last time he visited, the husband was at work and the kids at school. The plumber had been checking all the taps in the house because the water pressure had been down. He´d adjusted the water pump and now, with his usual thoroughness, he was checking the water flow upstairs and down, making sure the whole house was ok, conscientious and chivalrous. He was a great workman, so I was really quite sad about what happened.
The upstairs bathroom, primarily used by my children, had its door closed. The plumber, with his usual politeness, asked if he could go in. I said of course, but to watch out for the monsters that were sometimes left in there by the children.
He laughed as he opened the door and then his head was bitten off by the monster inside.

The Three Kings

On the 6th of January every year, the three kings, or three wise men, arrive in Spain. Evidently, predicting the birth of Jesus and travelling across the world following a star to find him was not enough of a task, they have to spend the next couple of thousand years on another mission.
Their mission is twofold; their primary purpose is to ensure that gifts are delivered to children across Spain. My Spanish teacher assures me (and I don’t think she’s doing the ‘let’s tell the foreigner a complete lie and see if she’s gullible enough to believe it' trick) that the three kings deliver their gifts to the balcony of the house. This, of course, is a perfect explanation why the three kings do not bother visiting Britain, because in the main, people don’t have balconies in Britain. Anyway, In order to know that they need to leave gifts for children on the balconies, the children need to leave their shoes outside...yes, I know, it all seems a bit bizarre to me too, but it’s a tradition and the kids love it! As with Santa, we also have to leave drinks for the three kings. My son decided to leave lemonade, a beer and an amaretto (with a few hints from his happy parents).
The second part of the mission is for the three kings to manifest themselves, in the form of men from the local towns and villages, dressed up in suitable kingly attire, with lots of other adults who should know better, also dressed up as shepherds, stars, kings and sheep. They then need to find some lorries and tractors, dress the floats, find as many boiled sweets and chocolates as they can and participate in a parade.
Most towns and villages in Spain have a three kings’ parade which travels its way through the town, towards the local church. After a church service, the kings will distribute gifts to the children of the village.
This year, we decided to attend the procession in Campello, our local beach town. We were told that Campello would be a small parade and that the kings would arrive by boat!! So, we dutifully trekked down for 5 pm, after finding out that the kings would be arriving at 5.30. They did arrive , by boat, one at a time. Our kids were quite excited to see three men dressed in bizarre costumes arrive by boat although the appeal was limited for adults, especially as we had to wait ten minutes between each king. Nonetheless, the people of Campello had organised an exciting enough arrival, with great fireworks heralding each king.
There were lots of people and children around and I suppose this is one of the great things about Spain, the whole procession is based around children. Never mind that many Spanish people have now adopted December 25th as a celebratory date, with gifts and food etc. No, what matters is that the children are able to enjoy the 5th of January as a date when the three kings arrive and the 6th January as the date when they will receive more gifts!!
After the arrival of the kings, we walked towards the procession and that’s when things became decidedly Spanish because nothing moved for ages and ages. We kept getting excited because stars and shepherds and donkeys (real ones, not dressed up!) moved a bit, but they were just shuffling forwards.
I suppose this is the time when the three kings get a bit tired, after star searching two thousand years ago and trekking to find Jesus, I suppose it’s a bit tiring to be dressed up on a carnival float and have to travel through towns across Spain.
Eventually, things moved along...but, to the horror of my children, the people on the floats were not throwing their sweets...this was what we had been promised, lots of sweetie throwing and gathering by children. Sure enough, there were well equipped Spanish children all along the route, holding their plastic bags ready to catch and collect and gather the sweets (nobody had told us to bring plastic bags, so we just had pockets!!)
My children were mortified, no sweets!! The Spanish people around us were also puzzled and started to hector the shepherds and variously dressed adults as to why they weren’t throwing sweets. They were told that the sweet throwing occurred further up the road. The Spanish people pointed out that there were children waiting along this part of the route and would it make any difference where the sweets were thrown? Evidently there had been some sort of three kings’ mandate, so no sweets were thrown where we were! We did see some great fire juggling and stilt walkers and fire breathing, but this was not good enough for my daughter...she wanted the sweets! We did the wise thing; we walked along the route to where the sweets would be distributed!
By this time, we had two tired children and a tired grandma in tow too. We walked a couple of hundred yards through much busier crowds and eventually saw some floats ahead who were passing down advent calendars. There was a scramble but we managed to get one for my son. My daughter was lifted up to reach an advent calendar but refused it...she’s quite a stubborn thing and she had been promised sweeties, and that is what she wanted. Thankfully, the shepherds in question had some and gave her a handful!
We were relieved to finally be able to leave, with the promised sweets. We had to wait for the remainder of the procession to pass before crossing the road. The last tractor pulled float travelled towards us. It seemed that the procession had finally overcome the stop start stuttering progress of earlier and now the floats were in full flow. It was dark and getting a bit colder and some fireworks were set off again on Campello beach, within easy view. And that’s when our magical three kings’ moment happened. The last float had the three kings on it. They didn’t care where they threw sweets, they knew their mandate...please the children.
My 7 year old and 4 year old looked up in awe at three strange men dressed in kingly costumes with bad false beards...their faces lit up as they realised that the three kings were throwing sweets...at them. There was an excited scramble around the pavement and the road, amidst plenty of laughter and jostling children and some scuttling adults too. And then, wonder of wonders, more sweets, up in the air, glinting with concealed magic as they caught the lights of the fireworks on the way to the ground. More scrambling and clutching for treasure, more laughter. My daughter was beaten to a final sweet by an older boy who was then chastised back by his mother to give the sweetie to my daughter! She took it! By this time the children were rosy cheeked with excitement with hands and pockets brimming full with sweeties.
And then the float had gone, leaving us with pockets full of sweets, two delighted children and three adults who had just seen some magic happen.
They were just some sweets after all; many are boiled sweets still in their complimentary bank wrappers... now they look kind of ordinary, in a little bowl in our kitchen, being slowly distributed day by day. They still have a little magic in them though and we will certainly be venturing out to the procession next year...we know where we need to stand now to get the sweets. And next year we’ll take plastic bags.