Episode 9: Anger and reconciliation

There's nothing quite like swiftly kicking a motorbike or hissing "puta" under your breath to get rid of the xenophobia and frustration of dealing with certain bureaucratic entities in Madrid. These weak acts of rebellion, or "little victories" as my friend Emmanuel so brilliantly called them, allow me to experience anger on a daily basis, as I fail to summon up the courage to scream so loudly in people's faces and put them in their place. I am a very angry person with unrealistic expectations. Like a bruised puppy, I am often found cursing under my breath at not only how idiotic the people I encounter are, and even more frustratingly, the cowardly manner in which I deal with them.

Take last week, for instance. I innocently ventured into H & M with my father dearest (adoring epithet- clearly buying me something) to purchase a much-needed cardigan, thus ending my denial of Madrid's fridge-like temperatures. We were served by a gangly, brace adorning woman who snatched my Dad's passport out of his hand as proof of ID. As well as sniggering at the photo without a word of thanks coming out of her metallic mouth (I had braces too, LET ME INSULT WHO I LIKE), she managed to mutter not-so-loudly to her colleague "you didn't tell me they were English". He laughed and continued to nicely place items in his brilliant-because-she's-Spanish customer's bag. I gritted my teeth and walked out, consequently ruining the next hour by hissing that I should have told her to shove it. In reconciliation, I would like to offer this to you as the conversation I wish I would have had:

Bitchy assistant: You didn't tell me they were English.
Me: You didn't tell me you were a racist bitch. I live in Madrid. I am fluent in Spanish. You are disgusting. Get me your boss now. I am also a top human rights lawyer and super police commissioner of life, and I am taking you DOWN.
(Miraculously pulls out police badge as fantasies allow).
I punch her in the face.

Perhaps I have lived in blissful ignorance for the past two and a half months. Perhaps I never accumulated enough Spanish to realise what people were doing. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the person in the bakery down the road from my work has always been a massive xenophobe. A few days ago, I entered to find a new assistant babbling in Spanish to one of the customers- surprise surprise. This is pretty daily fare, so I took my alloted place in the queue whilst they spoke about unemployment. Five minutes later, I was wondering how much longer the assistant would stay employed if she didn't do her job. Brushing all malevolent thoughts aside as I ordered my desired spinach pastry, the assistant refused to greet me and nearly squashed the pasty in half with her rhino touch. And that's coming from one of her herd. I handed her a two euro coin, and waited, expectant for change.

"I need change", I uttered, five minutes later.

"TWO EUROS!" She barked, offering no explanation. I frowned, fully aware that last week, the exact same item had been a euro. But money is talk when you speak to every other customer in the shop for ten minutes. Bewildered and frustrated, I left the shop and saw the assistant's face light up as a customer responded to her question about how their day had been.

Result: I kick a motorbike, and feel massively ripped off.

And, for the replay...

Me: I've given you two euros. That was one euro last week.
Bitchy assistant: TWO EUROS!
Me: I am not leaving the shop until you give me my change. I will irritatingly speak other anyone else you wish to talk to until I get my money. I AM ON AN INTERNSHIP FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. I AM FROM HULL. I AM ONE OF YOUR SEMI-UNEMPLOYED BRETHREN. WE ENGLISH ARE DECENT PEOPLE WHO ALSO MAKE EXCELLENT BAKED GOODS.
Bitchy assistant: My friend, I never realised your plight. No matter how many miles we travel, or how many different tongues we speak, we are united by the cause of bread. Let them eat cake, I used to say. To you, I say, I am no longer a racist bitch. Come back any time. By the way, your skin is fantastic.
Me: Thank you for listening. I hope to get a free pastry next time you enter the shop.
Bitchy assistant: No no, for the rest of your life, sister. Oh, and I'll give you free Spanish lessons because the ones down your road are ridiculously overpriced.
We hug. All is forgiven.

However, once I noticed what was going on around me, the 95% of people who have been brilliant have started to pale into insignificance, especially over the past few days. Having been without my pay for the past three months, I had never been so excited to nearly trip over a cash machine step in my life. As I stumbled to place my attractive international flag card into the machine, I eagerly anticipated the tiny white piece of joy that would confess my tiny bit of wealth in uneven black letters. When I saw a four instead of a four hundred, however, a tear fell down my cheek. I was in poverty city- population, 1. I was Pauline Mole without her giro. I would be ringing the bank and work every day until my phone would be cut off. I would shave my head in frustration. I would be interviewed by the nearest publication, because, well, I am a very loud journalist. I would have to send my son to Swingin' Dave's for his school trousers- or to translate, I would continue to have a hole in my one very pair of jeans for a long time. How was your weekend, I hear you cry? I spent it eating boiled pasta with someone else's butter, knitting a lurid scarf with the last five euros I had in my purse. Do not blame the stitch holes, they know not what they do.

Reaching desperation point today, I approached the bank that knew me so well to try and take the fast route and line up for the cashier. She refused to give me more than three seconds to conjugate my verbs and conclude my sentence before she barked at me to move.

"Move!" she said. "Just go to a cash machine!"

"I have been! I need to know!"

"Go to a table." When I went to respond, she actually decided to shout at me. "GO TO A TABLE!"

Watching her embrace her colleagues as she walked out of her glass cage, I wondered how people can instantaneously dislike someone for trying to speak their language. Experiencing my third discriminatory attack of the week, I wondered what it must be like to have this on a constant basis. You're going to find out, I reminded myself. You are living here for another eight months.

I didn't even leave the bank angry. I left incredibly disheartened, still with just four euros to my name.

Perhaps the gamesmaker had decided enough was enough, and if I was to ever attempt living again, he or she perhaps had to cut me a break. As soon as I saw my money leap into my account tonight, I started to think of how spicy my pasta would be tonight.

So, for all of those who never have the courage to stand up for what you believe in, I salute you. My inner coward now says screw you to all of the cashiers that sneer when you stumble as you try to roll your r's, the boys who think it's okay to invade your personal space every morning to comment on your level of attractiveness, the people who take your Beyonce moves for granted and laugh at your inability to shake your ring finger, your partner's persistent ex who refuses to let go, the salamander faced landladies who refuse to fix your household appliances and the bloody people who think a three euros is an acceptable price for a bag of boiled pasta.

I PUNCH YOU ALL IN THE FACE AND HUG YOU ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

My creative writing professor once told me not to use writing as therapy. No wonder I dropped the class.

Episode 6: Ikea, where art thou?

I have a bit of a situation with my bed. We've had quite the tempestuous relationship for the last month we've laid together. Rather than welcoming my open arms, I am met with menacing coils, begging for release from their foamy kingdom. If I didn't have deal with this almost hourly pleasantry, perhaps I would not be so sour about the reverb that comes from my wonky bed- as it clashes, suggesting to my housemates that I am encountering far more exciting liaisons, I am more sure than ever that three wheeled objects only belong in Only Fools and Horses. However, I have one problem that is well within my realm of control- one month into living here I still do not have a duvet sheet, which after trailing around numerous overpriced shops, left me no option but to travel out in search for an Ikea in a galaxy far, far away.

In all of its Swedish glory, the Ikea outing was top of the list for the Andersson clan. My Dad's unwavering loyalty to all things Swedish could remain in tact whilst he boasted about the cheapness of "Billy", "Ofelia"and "Henrika", which swiftly made their way into my house/the Ikea showroom. My sister and I could really believe we were half Swedish there, as we were met with insane plastic products with English prices. If I'm not concentrating, I still get the real place and the store mixed up.

However, it seems Madrid are not as keen on their Swedish brethren. Shunted to the suburbs of Madrid, I was given a 50 minute metro journey to La Peseta, it in itself a relic of Spanish past. Rather than questioning this dubious travel time, I grabbed my copy of The Female Eunuch as a battle weapon to prevent the gaze of slimy metro creeps. A satisfying amount of pages through, I made my way out of the station, to see rows and rows of apartments with no other sign of life available. I tried blaming apple maps, I tried blaming google maps, and any other map I could get my hands on- but I knew it was all down to me- I had decided to trust some twat on google answers to send me in the right direction. Twenty miles away from my Swedish homeland complemented by my twenty years of stupidity, I feigned from throwing my phone at the wall and decided to come home.

***DISCLAIMER- THIS IS NOT A COMPLETE NON-EVENT. IT DOES GET WORSE***

Making my way to the nearest (and only) cash point, I went to withdraw ten reluctant euros for the ride home. Thinking I must have entered my pin wrong, I watched the machine reject my pin twice. Unavailable funds, please try later. x 2. Out of the several bank cards I have, I thought one of them might have some money on. Oh, no. 1 doesn't have a pin yet. No. 2 has no money on. No. 3 has passed its expiry date. I made the mistake of looking at my phone to see exactly how far I was from the centre of Madrid. Oh, an hour and twenty minutes? That would be great- IF I HAD BIONIC LEGS.

The residents of La Peseta must have freaked out whilst I jogged up and down the streets to find another cash point. Considering they already think I am some replica from day of the dead, I wasn't surprised to hear a child scream as I went by. Trying not to sob like a five year old, I made my way down into the Metro station, wishing I would have asked the beggar I gave five euros to for some tips.

Ready to demolish my card for the third and final time, I submitted it into the murky depths of three metro card machines to get a response. When it came to the final card machine, I got it stuck. At this point, I was ready to sob my life story to any passer-by available. Shame there wasn't any, so the guard got this (best Spanish accents please) :
Me: "My birthday card, sorry, my bank card, is in this machine. It will not say bye. I don't know why it won't say bye. It won't leave... my Spanish is not very good."
Guard: "It's just gone into the machine now. Can you not use the machine?"
Me: "Oh it's okay now! It's in it's in, I never wanted it to say bye, more hello."
Guard: "Do you need some help?"
Me: "Not the type that you can give me."
(Guard misunderstands broken Spanish)
Guard: "You have to get ten trips because if you spend less than five euros it's cash only. See? (points to massive sign)..."
Me: "Oh yes, that makes sense. Thank you for your help. (sheepishly abandons paying two euros on card)..."

As I got off the final metro stop, I was caught in the rain. I got some penny sweets, and skipped the rest of the way home. It seemed apt, somehow.

One day, we will be together.

Episode 5: An even bigger slice of reality (creative titles at their best)

I envisaged a rather romantic goodbye from my family and boyfriend on our trip to the airport. Leaving for my flight to Madrid for the year, I wanted tears, heartbreak, and a little slice of somewhat unnerving breakdown.

My Dad dropped me off at the five minute departure zone and asked if I wanted anyone to come with me.

Letting that sentence speak from itself, my mother and boyfriend were rudely alerted that they needed to accompany me after realising I had in fact been dropped of at the wrong terminal- my doing, as per normal. With ten minutes of check in time remaining before my flight, I blubbered underneath my optics whilst my mother carried my suitcase. I awaited outside the garish orange easyjet sign- I should have known all that was novel had died then- when I got a long hug of my Mum, and five swift kisses off my boyfriend ranging from motherly peck to a touch of the cheek, WITH NO WATERWORKS WHATSOEVER. I gazed into their eyes. Mum had ill-timedly decided to have her tears back home when we were all trying to eat a nice bun, whilst my boyfriend didn't utter any emotional semblance whatsoever. Wondering if my loved ones were clones, I rang my mother after making it to the check-in gate in one piece for her to lie and tell me Joe had been in hysterics all journey. It seems I know where the real acting comes into play.

Slightly dishearted by our mutually weak reaction, I bought an overpriced salad and lunged towards the gate, determined to run and barge in a non-British manner, only to realise I was flying solo. Making a rather bathetic stop at the back row, I deprived a middle-aged man of the right to fly to next to his partner on a romantic trip to Madrid, and spoke and spoke about university, moving to another country and trashy magazines. I quickly learnt that he slightly resented university students, and especially me because I refused to give him peace and quiet for the remaining two and a half hours. I must remember not to pack my in-flight novel into my actual suitcase next time.

Awaiting inside the airport was my other half, Christine. I say other half, because since our friendship has endured me picking my nose, me getting up way too late, me having no sense of directional skill whatsoever, and her awful skill of buying really nice clothes. Our womance has shared a claustrophobic room, awkward Spanglish moments and a decent amount of alcohol. Finally secure in our much-desired apartment, we are perplexed as to how two people who chat to each other fourteen hours of the day could possibly live with an anti-social rabbit killer. Okay, that is perhaps harshly worded, but factually correct. A foreign masters Genetics student, the girl shares both an enviable command of Spanish and English, which we deduced from the one conversation we have had from her. After her avidly detailing her various skills as a rabbit murderer- despite protesting that I was a vegetarian- she has retired to her room, complete with strange electro sounds and world of warcraft (actually seen by self).

And on the job front? Give me another week. I have written about too many beautiful women to have a shred of self-confidence. I am currently compiling a list of "women who need to be kept away from the rest of humanity so the rest of us have a chance." Well, that's a nice way of putting it. The actual title is "women who need to be quickly shot to give the rest of us the chance."

Must abandon awful right-wing rags and go back to lovely, left-wing intellectualism.

... either way I sound like a bit of a twat.

Episode 4: Reality

I have been to Spain for precisely seven days, and will return to the country in question-- to live-- in another seven days. Amongst friends, I deny this information to be a viable topic of conversation. Amongst my family, I am frequently reminded of how much I have yet to prepare, generally resulting in me fleeing from the room. From a personal perspective, I have ignored all ideas of Spanish living, and am still floundering in despondency, ignoring all travel tips, language preparation and have not looked any further into it than booking a hostel for the weekend. Why? Because I am in complete and utter denial.

I must admit-- and I hope not to distaste-- that I have always been a person who survived on luck and chance. Inherently lazy, I spent my A-Level revision periods Facebook stalking, my university seminars making up the second part of an unread text- and somehow, just somehow- managed to attain my placement for a star-studded magazine in Madrid despite having an ugly bout of gastric flu. In this madness of spending my last few years of my life rather lethargically, I have done rather well for myself. However, I do have a confession to make. I am aware that in the seven days time, this mode of living will no longer work. I will have to be eager, enthusiastic, organised, and even more frighteningly, somehow apprehend the skill of successfully reading maps.

Plonkishly attempting to thrive under pressure, I began stage one of the preparation this morning: sort of preparing to pack. Beginning the job my Mother proposed to me six weeks ago, I began sifting through clothing, paper, and accessories, college era to present. Yet again, I admit something not altogether pleasing. For someone with only virtual, bank given pounds in their account, I have a hell of a lot of clothes. Enough to fill a garage, four wardrobes and a chest of drawers, to be precise. I am not exactly sure when, or if, any defining fashion sense has arisen from the ghosts of clothing past. Picking up one bag, it's definitely clear to say I went through an intense navy stripes phase, and thought hanky tops, bright purple gilets and ill-fitting skinny jeans were blessings to my body. I came across photo evidence detailing these more awkward fashion moments, and felt a lump in my throat. Diaries upon diaries demanding organisation were piled up high to the garage ceiling, with vacant spaces during July-September, detailing birthdays of loved and formerly loved ones. On the brink of nostalgic heartbreak, I came across letters from my best friends, being far nicer than anyone should be. And oh my, and the mould. Threatening my once favourite bag and a multitude of cheaply bought pumps, I solemnly swear to forego bulk buying and think before buying yet another animal print t-shirt. Looking through my past, I began to throw away my material memories, aware that I am generally lazy for I reason- I really hate saying goodbye.

Now the actual packing is due to begin, where actually am I? Still writing this blog post, because, my dear friends, that's what DENIAL is. I'll be in touch when I realise I'm on the brink of an emotional breakdown because I don't own a functioning adaptor.

                                          Looking like dappy in Orca-shaped hat courtesy of my boyfriend. Just call me
                                                        the "orca"-strator.