Body Language

An important lesson I learned while living with the Spanish girls was that you don't have to speak the same language as someone to show your disdain for them. Nata was really great, but even though I couldn’t understand what Ana was saying, she made it pretty clear that she didn’t think very much of me. I can understand her point of view. Some foreign girl moves into your flat for a month or two, seems to be asleep all the time, and you can't really understand what she says. Conclusion: some weirdo you don't really want to associate with too much in your life. Sad, but understandable.

One particular day, there was someone else coming to check out the room, and she joked with me about how we “should tell them we all go to bed at 9pm” to which I should have replied “and that we never do our dishes either?”, but sadly didn’t. I’m sure she meant well, but about an hour later I was watching a film and she came in the living room with the new guy. She casually opened my last two beers, which she poured for herself and her new friend, then preceded to tell me that the film which she had borrowed from me was really terrible.

It was the end of a long week. I went to my room, got dressed and went for a walk. While I was getting ready she knocked on the door, saying she thought the beers were hers and Nata’s. The damage was done! I was dressed by this point, so I walked to the nearby park which has a great view of the city and a random Egyptian temple. On the way, I bought a big can of beer from a Chinese shop.

I have rarley felt more alone than I did on that Thursday night, outside the Templo De Debod in the park near my house, quietly crying into my supersized can of Mahou.

I watched various people on their tours of the park, feeling entirely miserable, and then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A man who had been running in the park was now lying on the bench adjacent to mine, vigorously waving his legs in an amusing fashion. I burst out laughing, and he came and sat next to me. (I later found out from a friend that it is virtually impossible for a woman to sit in a park on her own in Madrid no matter how intently she is reading; a man will always come and harass her). The man was fairly amusing, and gave me his details to go for “tea” with him, but even in the twilight I could tell he was at least 35, and moreover, no self respecting Spanish person pretends to prefer tea to coffee. I was reticent about contacting him, and then I lost his phone number when I moved house (which was probably for the best for all concerned).

Living with the Spanish girls for a month was really cool in some ways. I can now add "You're really skinny for a British person" to my top 10 favourite complements. However, when you are a “temp” in a job, some people don’t bother to talk to you. Imagine living in that kind of environment.

No Substitute

I work with Sexto, year six, which is split into 3 classes. My teachers all seem really great but I´m having some problems disciplining the children. I think that it is safe to say that Spanish people in general are very confident and assertive (compared to us shy Brits) and I´m find it difficult to get them to be relatively quiet.

However, my biggest headache at the moment is that I’m expected to take the whole of 6A as they do not have a permanent supply teacher. The teachers who are filling in from other departments tend to speak no English, so they can’t tell me what I have to do. When faced with a whole class of children, while there is a qualified (if non-English speaking) teacher in front of me, I really feel the difference between me and a qualified teacher. I’m finding the TEFL module at uni really useful, but I’m also experiencing the sensation that it only scratches the surface of teaching; there is a reason why people study for several years to become teachers. I'm not really sure how to say "I'm not paid enough to be a 'proper' teacher"...

The flat in Arguelles is nice, but it is so far from school (50 minutes, door-to-door) and one week I was late 3 times and got in a lot of trouble. Subsequently after that, I rushed to school, and put my MP3 player in an outside pocket of my backpack. Needless to say, it’s been stolen, which is a shame as it was really useful for listening to Spanish learning materials on the way to school. However, with my MP3 player stolen it means I can concentrate on my verb table revision cards. (F*ck my life?).

No Penis. Period. (HELP!)

I’m a very proud person, and refuse to ask for help until the very last moment (usually when it’s too late!), so I insisted that I would do EVERYTHING myself. However, the tiredness has been really building up, so I’ve been making really stupid embarrassing mistakes.

The Spanish language is specifically designed to trip up the unwitting foreigner, so ofcourse it stands to reason that the word for chicken (“pollo”) is very similar in pronunciation to the word for penis (“poya”). It is a fatal error to walk up to a butcher’s counter thinking “Don’t say penis. Don’t say penis. Don’t say penis”. You will ask for penis when you mean to ask for chicken, and what’s worse, you will walk away from the counter empty-handed.

Also, if you don’t know how to ask for a monthly metro pass, you will also inadvertently ask some poor bugger for a period of a more menstrual variety. But no one will laugh this time as you are holding up the ticket buying queue with your tomfoolery.

If I was the kind of person who depended on the help of others, I think my life, and those of the people I come into contact with, would become very boring. However, I finally plucked up the courage to ask Ana for a bit of help with my NIE. She called the number I had been given while I watched, but told me that there was an answer phone message saying I had to “sign in online”. This didn’t make much sense as you need the NIE number to actually sign in. I know the system is completely messed up, but I also know that this is the phone number that other people have used to make their appointment. Could Ana just be fobbing me off? No, I'm just paranoid. She has no reason to do that, surely...

But seriously, what the fuck am I going to do? You can’t get a bank account without a NIE, and you can’t get paid without a bank account. This situation is getting dire now!

Commencing The Beauraucratic Odyssey

The coordinator at my school phoned a mysterious number for me, and after a short phone conversation in which I was casually asked whether my Chinese visa refusal was due to criminal convictions (if only it was something so glamorous), I made an appointment to receive some “help”. Luckily, Roselle (who has been studying Spanish at University and so attended the ‘Induction’) didn’t have the faintest idea what we were supposed to do either.

We arrived at the Bilingual Programme office 20 minutes late as they had misprinted the address in the ‘Introduction Pack’. I should have taken this to be a bad omen, but instead I entered the building with a smile on my face and hope in my heart. After about 30 seconds, it became clear that Irena had no idea about my “special situation”, and she seemed appalled that I had been allowed anywhere near Spain (or her office) without being able to speak at least intermediate level Spanish. After chastising me for not coming to the induction, and also helpfully highlighting my own countries bureaucracy problems, she then preceded to explain that the entire NIE system in Spain is screwed up due to cut backs in staff as a result of the recession, and that it would be pretty difficult to get this magic piece of paper that proves that you exist.

Nevertheless, she commenced phoning numbers from the websites for us. At the end of each number there was an answering machine playing a helpful and informative message, detailing the next number to ring. After phoning 5 numbers, she printed off an official looking form, assuring us that everything would be ok if we just went to this random place really far away and filled in some other forms. Dubious, but ready to explore the city, we set off.

After 50 minutes of walking in the baking sun, and following the directions of various gnarled old men (“turn left at the roundabout, pass the insane asylum and the old prison...”. Have we actually stepped into the start of a horror movie?), we made it to the Commiseriat.

It was quite difficult to tell that the building was a police station, as it was bright yellow, with what looked like a large circus tent at the back. Thankfully, we spotted a steady stream of Chinese and Mexicans on their pilgrimage to and from the back of the big top tent, so we knew we were probably in the wrong place, as places that catered for non-EU immigrants usually weren’t in the mood to complete paperwork for people who could not be deported and therefore were “non-urgent” cases. At the front gate of the compound, a rather grumpy young man informed us that the department we wanted was closed at 12.30; his facial expression denoted that we were obviously idiots for thinking anyone working in an office could be bothered with dealing with stupid immigrants after lunch.

Called Back for a Second Interview

Amazingly, the flat that I had an interview for a few weeks ago want to see me again! I can't believe it. I'm so happy! Living with the two girls has been OK but they smoke, and the temptation for me to start again is a bit too much. I need to live with non-smokers, and I want to live with people who are older and working. I am literally so tired from just existing here that I can't really contemplate doing anything other than being in PJ's on weeknights let alone "partying" ! My worst nightmare would be living in a flat where people are renting individually and behave like what people term as "students", but in reality is just idiocy. Maybe I have aged prematurely, but I just want to live in a clean and well organised place, with decent and conscientious people.

Moving Flat

Packing to leave Mirta’s was a strange experience. I packed enough things for the weekend and a week in work, but packed the rest into my main suitcase, as it wasn’t set in stone whether I would be taking the apartment in Arguelles so I might need to stay in a hostel for a week. Luckily I will be able to leave my big suitcase and my laptop at Frank’s house if I need to live at a hostel while I try to find somewhere to live.

I hailed a cab to Frank’s, and when I arrived he insisted that I stay with him until my room at the flat was ready. The kindness of some people truly amazes me!

His friend Fiona arrived and we had some “flat-warming drinks”, then went out to meet a group of people we had met at the Couch Surfing picnic (the week before).

The people were cool, and I had a nice time, but I had the same feeling that I always have in a new city of “missing something”. Not knowing the area, not knowing where to go, we ended up in an overpriced club which was playing commercial R&B, and every single girl inside was wearing heels and foundation. Not my scene at all!

Woke up in Frank’s bed with his friend Fiona and a hangover, then I hailed a cab to my new place, unpacked a little, and set off for my first private Spanish lesson with Jesús. He said my knowledge was mainly active and not passive, which is an understated way of saying that you cannot speak a bloody word! Ah well, hopefully next week I won’t be so hung-over and tired!

Flat Flop

This afternoon, I finally managed to see the flat that the school (where I have been studying Spanish) has found me. The woman spoke no English, and my Spanish is still crap at best! The room is 650 a month, which I know is top dollar (or euro...), so I was expecting something really high quality. I could have done with saving the money but I need somewhere to live pronto so I thought I would only rent it for the first month.

With the idea that I would be taking the flat pretty much whatever happened, I went upstairs. The living space was tiny and the room I was looking at was tiny with a single bed and a wardrobe with a broken door. One of the girls who lived there took me to see the balcony, and told me that she paid her school 450 a month to live there. Her room was huge with a double bed. I had already decided not to take the room, but the fact that she paid so much less sealed my resolve. With a cold feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach, I left.

I got home, completely demoralised, had a short (but intense) cry to myself, and then started phoning numbers on adverts I found on the internet.

It’s truly amazing how many people say the room is full as soon as you start speaking English. I can understand that people have had bad experiences with foreigners, but I am a really kind and considerate person who just needs somewhere to live! How I long to be able to speak Spanish competently! How much easier life would be if I spoke the same language as the majority of people in this city!

What am I going to do? How could I have allowed this to happen?

Yet again, Mirta came to my rescue, phoning numbers and using local websites and lettings that I hadn't even heard of. She came across a room which is vacant for two months in an area called Arguelles (which is where Beth lives) with two Spanish girls. I'll go to see it on Saturday, but I'm pretty desperate. How bad can it be?

God bless you Mirta!