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The Girl with the Daffodil Tattoo

A Welsh girl let loose in a wild world

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Madrid

It’s Almost Impossible to be Unhappy in Bilbao

I cried on the plane to Bilbao again today, knowing that I won’t be back in the UK for a while now. Home isn’t perfect, but it’s so…. normal. You know what to expect. You know roughly when stuff opens, and what time it closes. You count the money without thinking about it. Your brain doesn’t get exhausted by speaking a foreign language, trying to interpret signs that are make zero sense to you.

As soon as I got back to the flat, I lay down on the sofa and had a good old cry. My mum is 100% dead, incinerated, soon to be scattered. Her house is empty. I worked really hard over the summer, emptying the garage and cupboard after cupboard, giving things of no sentimental value to charity (which is where they came from), and my sister did the final clear out of Mum’s clothes this week. Don’t ask me where she got the mental energy. I just sat there, feeling waves of sadness hit me and trying not to get in her way.

I peeled myself off the sofa as there was no food in the house, and I put on my “walking in Spain face”, which tries to be neutral, yet with a hint of “I take no shit”. I’ve been working on softening it in the year since I left Madrid, but it’s still pretty sharp.

The lift in my building arrived. There was a young couple already in there. I got in. The lift didn’t move. “Your backpack” they said, smiling. Anther person got in. They all chatted.

I went to the supermarket, got my stuff, and then waited in the queue. Someone who worked there actually bothered to tell me I was in the 5 items or less queue, smiling, while his other coworkers consoled a crying child who had mislaid it’s mother, feeding her chocolate. When I was ready to pay, the cashier leant over conspiratorially, and told me that I was really missing out by not having the store card. She called over her manager to sign me up, and I dictated to him my details, while a lady behind me remarked “I learn English my whole life and look, she’s learning Spanish and she speaks so well. Where are you from?”.

Back in the lift of my apartment, I stopped to hold a door open for the person entering behind me. She started chatting to me about how cold it was (in Britain it’s 10 degrees colder right now,  but no one likes this to be pointed out). I smiled and nodded, agreeing about the “cold”, while thinking “You know nothing Jon Snow”. As I left the lift she called after me “Happy New Year!”.

I suppose that people are generally happier and friendlier during the holidays, but Bilbao is just such a happy and friendly place in general. It’s the complete polar opposite to Madrid. I wish wish WISH I had moved to the Basque Country earlier, but I always remind myself that if I hadn’t lived in Madrid for 3 horrible years then I wouldn’t have met my lovely partner.

I’m so glad I live here now. Basque people are so lovely and kind,  so polite, so positive, so gracious and welcoming to foreigners. I hope people treat them really well when they are in the UK.

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Long Distance Relationship Snapshots

Today is a momentous day, because it means that there is only 2 months left before my long distance relationship ends, and I return to live in the same city as my beloved partner. 3 months down, 2 more  to go.

Here’s a timeline of my relationship with my wonderful, patient, kind, loving, accepting, sweet, amazing partner.

September 6th: We meet at an international party. We spend the whole night talking and laughing like old friends. Upon saying goodbye, I tell him that I´m not interested in a relationship, that I think he’s a loose man, and that I’m going to go on a 600km hiking trip, during which I won’t be thinking of him at all because I’m the most important person in my life.

October  7th: We go for coffee “as friends”

October 14th: He has melted my ice cold heart and become a wonderful part of my life. We become “an item”

March 3rd: He leaves for Thailand. I make plans to visit over the summer.

❤ months long distance>

May 23rd: He comes back to Madrid for a week, on his way to work in Ireland for two months.

<2 months long distance>

July : We are reunited in his parents house in France. We spend 5 glorious weeks there, never arguing and being sickeningly romantic.

September 30th: I start my 5 month trip. Yoann tells me that he wants me to go as it’s what I’ve planned all along and he loves how independent I am.

<5 months long distance>

February 1st 2014: I’ll arrive in Bilbao, northern Spain. Can’t wait!

Having a relationship through Skype is hard. I always said that I would “never” have a long distance relationship with a boyfriend, as I’ve had ones with my family for a long time and I couldn’t imagine a boy being worth a life chained to the computer. Then I met Yoann, a man who said to me: “Go, because this is what you want. This is what is best for you. Follow your dreams. I’ll wait for you here”.

 

Here are some of my Skype highlights of my beloved that I´ve taken over the past few months without his knowledge.

Video call snapshot 9

Yoann, looking handsome and telling me about his day at work, teaching French.

Video call snapshot 27  Video call snapshot 33 Video call snapshot 34 Video call snapshot 39

My favourite times are when he takes the computer into the kitchen and talks to me while he’s cooking. We both love to cook and eat so we spend a lot of time in the kitchen together.

 

Video call snapshot 8

Yoann trying to make his computer work. He hates technology, and pulls this face when it goes wrong.

 

Video call snapshot 11

Yoann asking me if when we live together he can display “Jimi”, his Jimi Hendrix mural (which can be seen in the background).

Video call snapshot 45

Scratching his head when I talk to him about starting a family…………………………………….by getting a cat.

Video call snapshot 24

Putting his ear to the screen to better hear me.

 

Video call snapshot 20

Telling me a story involving his wild boxing strength.

Video call snapshot 18

Looking bored as I’m moaning at him about wearing a helmet while boxing.

 

Video call snapshot 41 Video call snapshot 43

Laughing at his own jokes harder than anyone else. He gets this from his Dad. They say it is a progressive illness.

 

Never compromise your dreams for a relationship, no matter how much you think you are in love. “What is meant for you will not go by you”, and if it’s real, then it’s worth testing.

The girls here often ask me how I know he doesn’t have another girlfriend, how I know that he isn’t cheating. “Well,” I say, “if he wanted to cheat on me, he would be just as likely to do it when I was there as when I’m not”. And if you don’t trust each other, then you don’t have anything.

 

Why Spanish from Madrid is less than the best

IMG_0801

After 3 years of living in Madrid, I speak fluent Spanish. But there’s just a teeny tiny problem: the Spanish that I learned there doesn’t just differ from Central American Spanish with the use of “vosotros” and “ustedes”. It’s actually considered really rude and abrasive. I realised within the first 24 hours that there was a distinct lack of people  swearing, as I didn’t hear anyone at all saying “joder” (fuck) as in “no me jodas” (lit. “don’t fuck me”, meaning don’t mess with me”, “mierda” (shit), “coño” (bastard), and (everyone’s favourite) “me cago en dios/la vírgin/la puta” (literally “I poo on god/the virgin/the bitch), but I didn’t know that many of the seemingly less innocuous words I used in my daily life in Madrid were less than polite. Here are some examples of my faux pas to date:

1) Some little girls were playing dares, and touching my bum and then running away. I turned around and said (theatrically) “No toques mi culo” (“Don’t touch my butt”). But here, “culo” is much stronger, more like “ass”, and the accepted term is “pompis”. Oops.

2) Last night, a group of older girls showed me the dance that they had choreographed for the show that I’m helping them with. To express surprise and awe, I said it was “de puta madre”. This was met with 10 seconds of silence, and then an eruption of laughter. They had never heard that expression before, and didn’t know it was meant positively. Vaya.

But, I suppose that it’s obvious to people as soon as I open my mouth that I am not only foreign but that this is not my native tongue. So far, no one has taken offence, which is all to the good. I’m sure there are more linguistic landmines in my lexicon from Castillian Spanish just waiting to be stepped on, but hopefully it will be cool, or “macizo” (as the girls say here).

 

 

Integration

Integration is a word that was on my periphery when I lived in my home country. People would often mention how certain groups of immigrants all lived in one area of a city, and maybe “kept to themselves”, or “didn’t learn English”. As the issue didn’t apply to me, I ignored it, as was my privilege as being part of the majority.

When I moved to Spain to teach English and learn Spanish, I didn’t know ANY Spanish (or similar languages), which made me a target for xenophobia at the school where I worked. I absorbed the abuse like a sponge; it was my fault they hated me, if I spoke better Spanish they would treat me better, etc. I got it in to my head that “intensive” courses would help me, so I signed up to all of the Spanish classes that I could, and I struggled and struggled and struggled. I allowed my Spanish coworkers to make me feel guilty for not knowing their language, as if not having had the opportunity to study Spanish made me a “bad” person. They were insecure about their English so they took it out on me, trying to get me to pronounce words in Spanish and laughing at my attempts. The idea of being one of those “güiris” who just hung around with other English speakers and didn’t “make any effort” repulsed me, so I spent all of my time outside of work with Spanish people, at different types of events; parties, drawing clubs, dance classes, picnics, gigs, volunteering.

I spent two years miserable, and mostly alone. At best, Spanish people patronised me, gloating about how “¡internacional!” they were to have a token foreigner at their party. At worst, people screamed in my face for being different, pushing in front of me in waiting lines, full of resentment that I was “Erasmus”* (which I wasn’t. I had a degree, I had a job, I was working, I was paying my own rent), while they were unable to get a job within their own country, as if I had control over the political and economic situation.

(*Erasmus is a scholarship in Europe for people to spend a semester or full year studying at a university abroad. As with many scholarships, students use it to party their stresses away with the free wine money the government has given them. For Spanish students, who don’t leave home to study abroad, this might be the first time they have rented their own apartment, hence the nickname “orgasmus”)

And always, always, the bilingual coordinator at school spoke of “integration”. We had a meeting about it once a month, where we were chastised for “speaking English” in the dining room (when our Spanish English-speaking coworkers wanted to practice with us), but this was an atmosphere where I sat down and people (grown adults) would abruptly get up to sit somewhere else because they didn’t want to sit next to me, or people wouldn’t say “Hello” to you in the corridor (which is customary here). From these experiences, it became clear that “integration” was something that we did, while other people were allowed to use us as psychological punch bags. We had to eat fruit with knives and forks, as it was “the Spanish way”. We were told to “stop eating all the food”, as whenever the breakfast buffet ran out of something, it was our fault. When we were sick, we didn’t have a cold, we were hungover, because that was our stereotype and stereotypes are always correct. We were told to “integrate”, but we weren’t given a “way in”. Our Spanish coworkers formed a tight, sealed circle, with only one or two breaking ranks to show interest in their new, temporary colleagues, mostly motivated by practicing English with us, which made their coworkers despise us even more.

I still hear my friends in Britain, all monolingual, saying mildly xenophobic things, like commenting that someone “had lived in the UK 30 years and still didn’t speak English”, pronounced in that tone of disgust, as if “speaking English”, or any language for that matter, were an easy thing, accessible to all. If an immigrant doesn’t have a job in the native language, they don’t have an opportunity to speak it on a daily basis, because making friends is hard, especially factoring in different cultural norms.

Last week, someone chastised me for having English speaking friends. I explained to the person that without a job in Spanish, making friends here is hard, seeing as this region has a “cuadrilla” system, meaning that you make friends in primary school, and you keep that group of friends for life. My boyfriend’s cuadrilla have made it clear that they are not interested in being friends with me. They don’t bother to remember my name, they ask me no questions or show no interest in me whatsoever, they talk about me within earshot as if I can’t understand them, they criticise my Spanish, my pale skin, my choice of music, they assume that I don’t know how to play poker and suggest that I should share cards with my partner,. In short, they don’t treat me with kindness or respect, and I don’t feel comfortable with them or like spending time with them, which is a huge source of disappointment for me. I had hoped that my boyfriend’s friends could be my friends too, but I am coming to terms with the fact that that is not possible. Even after explaining all that, the person continued to imply that I “wasn’t trying hard enough”. I wanted to say: “I’ve lived in Spain almost 5 years. I’ve made one friend who is Spanish/Basque. How much harder do I need to try? I’m done with trying”.

My boyfriend is French, and is happy living here. I am now learning French, and I can see that about 40% of their language is the same as Spanish. Nouns, verbs, expressions, grammatical concepts like masculine and feminine as well as the subjunctive. They even use bread to eat dinner in the same way, tearing it off in a chunk, and using it to push food onto their fork. Integrating is easier the closer your native language and customs are to the target culture.

I’m not integrated here, because if integrating means being Spanish, or Basque, or something else, then that’s not me, and it never will be. I can’t eat my dinner with a fork in one hand and a piece of bread in the other, and I don’t want to. I drink PG Tips in the morning. I dunk biscuits in it. When I eat soup, I dunk a sandwich in it. These are things that I like to do, tiny things that go back to my earliest childhood.

I’m me. I’m from where I’m from. That’s not better, that’s not worse, it’s just different. If people here or anywhere else don’t want to accept me for that, then that is their problem, not mine.

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