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 8: Jasmine vs The Spanish Banking System

To anyone who has purveyed this blog, it will be clear to see that I talk about three things- food, my bed, and my failures within my limited realm of function. Today, I have decided to bring all of these blissful things together in one handy post- for your convenience and for my complete lack of pleasure.

The bank manager at the Santander branch two streets away from my work knows my first name. As well as being one of the more distinctive looking people parading myself on Spanish streets (pale, blue eyed, carry my coat  rather than wear it because fifteen degrees is STILL warm), I have become rather memorable amongst staff members around Madrid because of my interesting Spanglish hybrid. Recently, I have become accustomed to tell my Spanish/Asian shopkeeper that my penny sweets "should be around one euro worth, mate" and then end up cursing myself as I say "see you later, have a nice noche". My first trip to the bank all in all ended up in me being sent to another one after nearly singeing one man's hair nostrils after I insisted "I work! I need a working account!" like a strangled flamingo. After being trapped in Madrid's ridiculous trap doors that bark at me to remove my "metallicos", I entered the bank disheartened and angsty,  with my headphone cord strangling me in protest for abandoning my iPod in the worryingly vulnerable lockers that were afore me. In short, I determined to throw a tampon at the next person who insisted my documentation was incorrect.

"She works for Hola magazine, she works for Hola magazine!" shouted the bank manager in front of me. Rather than bothering to correct her, I waited to accept her kind words, when her colleague other the next desk politely informed her that he knew someone there and it wasn't that impressive. Fortunately I knew enough Spanish and still possessed enough restraint to not nip him over the desk, but wryly raise an eyebrow, the universal look of nonchalant comprehension.

Seventy five documents later with RSI after signing seventy five different pieces of paper, I exited the bank, aware that a neat little card with adorned with some international flags would arrive into my tin of a postbox.

It did, and I lost it two days later.

I should have perhaps apologised to my boyfriend, the second victim of my invalidity that week. It was just too hard. The card had vanished into thin air, like 80% of my belongings, and I was yet again lost in translation on the phone to a Spanish call centre advisor.

Me: "Someone has stolen my card. It actually has some money on it. Please save it, I don't know where it is and I don't know any Spanish."

Assistant: (too fast for comprehension) "Number...card...potatoes" (I think).

Me: Sorry, I can't understand you. (My favourite phrase at the moment)

Assistant: Sorry.

Me: Well, my card has been stolen.

Assistant: This is the Spanish line for lost cards.

Me: I know. I live in Spain. I just can't speak Spanish.

*assistant garbles*

Me: (under breath) It is possible to live in Spain and not speak Spanish.

*phone disconnects*

This happened several times before I walked into my local Santander, google translate in hand. Please picture the scene ahead:

Manager is missing from scene. I locate the unimpressed assistant who mocked my job previously. He smiles, unaware of what he is about to encounter.

Me: I can't speak Spanish. But I am going to try.

Assistant: Si. (I refuse to translate that).

Me: My card has been been robbed.

Assistant: Your card has been been robbed? Where from?

Me: I do not have a card. I need a card.

Assistant: What is your address?

Me: (blah blah)

Assistant: Here are your transactions.

Me: Yes! I haven't been robbed!

Assistant: Err, what else do you want?

Me: I need a new card. My card has been been robbed!

Assistant: (laughs-?!) Oh, cool. I'll send you a new one. Give it five days. Bye.

In intermingling confusion and relief, I left the bank and got on with my work. Rejoicing with hordes of food shopping as I went to the door, it took me to scramble around my empty bag to realise the lockers at the bank were much sharper than I.

"I've left my key in those metallic lockers. Those stupid bloody metallic lockers. The lockers of shame," I said to my flatmate.

"I might go and cry in my room."

Christine was quicker to the mark than I.

"But you won't be able to get into your room," she helpfully explained.

Oh, the tears. In retrospect I feel incredibly sorry for what I put anyone in contact with me through that night. Many a profanity, wail and aggressive snarl came out of my mouth in the hour it took me to finally recover and make a move to return to the bank. In desperation, I even asked my friend to google maps whether the lockers were in or outside of the building.

"Is that even possible?" She asked.

"JUST TRY!" were my words, helpfully capped to express my frustration.

In an unsuccessful walk to and from the bank, I noticed a pack of cigarettes in my bag. As a non-smoker, for once I felt highly tempted to have a puff and be done with it all and my asthmatic lungs. I looked at the packet.

The cigarettes were called Fortuna.

The question is, have I yet learnt any lessons? The answer is no. I just watch irony filter in through cigarette packets, my non-existent wage packet and the immeasurably more comfortable sofa bed in our living room. 

Episode 7: Meeting Ikea's bastard best mate

It dazzles you with its large, cheap-looking, sky-blue typeface. It has arrays of page 3 model type mannequins wearing indecent lingerie in too-large windows. It will never, ever run out of hooped earrings. It will always run out of the two items in the window you actually considered. Everyone pretends they don't shop there when 90% of us do. It stormed my Yorkshire high street in 2003. It pretends not to use child labour through some half-arsed ethical policy. You guessed it- it's Primark.

When my sister arrived, I was still in denial about my state of living. Five weeks on, I still had three full bin bags lurking at the side of my door, discarded make-up wipes littered on my dresser and popcorn crumbs festering in my bed. This is the life, I thought. Who needs cleanliness when House is always on repeat?

"HAVE YOU LOOKED AT YOUR ROOM RECENTLY?" bellowed my sweet ginger raven.

"Oh yeah it's pretty big, the windows don't shut though," I replied.

"YOU HAVE BITS IN YOUR BED. BITS I AM NOT SURE OF," said my sisterly companion.

I said: "Tee hee, that will be the popcorn. Let's fling this to the side," as I flicked the bits out of the bed.

"YOU DO NOT HAVE A SHEET ON YOUR BED." Boomed the ginger biscuit.

"Well, if you saw my blog post about Ikea..." I floundered.

"NOR DO YOU HAVE A PILLOW COVER. I AM GOING TO TAKE THE BLANKET THAT HAS NOT BEEN ON THE FLOOR, AND PLACE IT OVER THE PILLOW. I DO NOT CARE IF YOU ARE COLD, FOR YOU ARE A DISGUSTING CREATURE WHO NEEDS TO LEARN!" shouted the girl who only just touches 5"4. Well, perhaps the latter part of that statement was made up, but the implication was made. I had become a squatter in my own home. And who better than your elder sister to shame you into place?

However, the place I had been shamed into venturing to lurked in the far corners of Madrid. Perhaps Madrilenos actually realise how fucking embarrassing it is to worship the cheap tackhole that is Primark, or perhaps they needed a big enough shopping centre on the outskirts to house the monster. When my sister and I made our arrival, it was clear both ponderings were true. We had arrived in Spanish shopping hell.

"People.are.walking.really.slowly," I said to my sister.

"There.is.no.lane.system.and.people.are.sauntering.everywhere."

I do not think I have seen a shopping centre busier in my entire life. Not Trafford Centre, not Westfields, not anything. Or perhaps it was because people were moving so very slowly. Like a syrup, the shoppers oozed across the mall and let no particular flow determine their direction. The metro one row up, one row down system on the escalator is the only functional queueing system in the entire country (MacDonalds is a riot). People walked at each other from every possible direction, stepping on feet and tripping up old ladies to run after their wanton child. And that was if they were looking. Couples stopped in their tracks to point at windows or joke with their friends whilst 3-year-old Fredrico started raiding the bins. This place wasn't a jungle. It was retail suffocation.

Trailblazing the maze and solving arrows like menacing IQ puzzles, my sister and I might have stepped on a small child's head just to find and enter the P Palace. After elbowing hordes of syrupy shoppers, we had arrived at our destination. And it looked something like this:

fwnep90fj3-jf3-gj0-perwjgw0-rjm-0
24JHG-24JH0-RMWH0-JR0-HJRW0
-HJW=R0HJK0R5JH=0
WRJH=wrj5h0=wjk
hg=wrjkh=j5kh=0wjkh=0w4jrwh0jw4h0=jr5h0=j5h0=j5h=0j5h=0-j5=hj5j0[epfmq[epmg[qepnmb[oenbo[WRNgopwrnmbo[hpnrmeopgnmeopt2j-39l][c]
qwlf]lqEV]KWR,
BKRWBKR]BKRP[BN,[PNTM
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes words fail me. This is certainly one of those occassions.

As I entered the shop, the tides had turned. Challenge mode had begun. GAME ON.

Level 1: Defeat the coats
Level 2: Partywear
Level 3: Shoes
Level 4: Gifts for friends
Level 5: More shoes
BOSS LEVEL: What you came for
Level 7: Miscellaneous
Level 8: The checkout

Level 1:
- I pick up a blue coat that looks seemingly inoffensive from the rack. It has a rather endearing fur collar that is fortunately, not made from animal. I take a closer look, and realise the buttons look almost offensive in their largeness. I drop the coat onto the head of a small child. I do not look back.

Level 2:
- This time I face an even larger crowd and swipe a purple-patterned pencil skirt from under the nose of a frantic woman. Realising that the William Morris flock pattern will never do anything good for my semi pear shape (large thighs, no bottom) I concede defeat after my sister mocks me.

Level 3:
- Why does every shoe have a pink zip? Where are all of the basic £2 white pumps I have grown to know and love? They are with the ballet pumps that I purchased, brown and inoffensive, in a size 5 because I think my toenail length has made me go up a size.

Level 4:
- I had many a request. I laughed them off. Primark is serious enough business when you are trying to get your own purchases.

Level 5:
- Sibling decides that she needs a pair of shoes, and actually considers the violently purple suede courts to team with red wrap dress. Fearing that her national average 5 "4 stature will be lost at the scene of the party, she concedes defeat and opts for a pair of black pumps that were conceived with the medieval period in mind.

BOSS LEVEL:
- I head to the duvets and frantically decipher what is king, single, and double. When I realised that my first two options (the cheapest) had ran out, I opted for a criss cross heart pattern that looks like it has been stolen from a Scandinavian version of the gingerbread house.

Level 7:
- Hairgrips are swiped after finding the only blonde pair available. Maybe time to consider dyeing my hair back to its natural not-so-attractive mousey brown.

Level 8:
- Hysteria kicks in. I cannot quite believe I have made it. As I make my way towards the queue, I feverishly swipe pants, socks and a heart-shaped tangle teaser. Sibling forces me to put down the Moroccan oil. Ironically, these turn out to be my best purchases.

After leaving the shop, I scream in hysteria at completing the challenge. People start tutting behind me. I don't care; I am brilliant.

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 2: Alcohol

For the past month, there has not been one day where I have not drank some alcohol. Be it a casual beer in a not-so-sunny beer garden, a cheeky glass of wine with my boyfriend's mother, or an embarrassing bender with my friends (more often than not), I have swiftly undone my practically teetotal status of drinking the occasional Guinness, and providing care for the rest of the drunken louts that surround me.

Amongst my friends, we all agreed that we had not drank this much since we were underage, testing the boundaries of our limits, seeing exactly what spirits would push us over the rim of the toilet. There was one particular club in our area that would accommodate our underage needs, allowing us to enter its murky depths with a photocopy of our sister's passport, a student card that ever-so-obviously listed us as a sixteen year old, and on some occasions, even a bus pass would suffice. Dingy and dirty, we all wore black and flats to avoid sticking to the dancefloor. Not only was this a haven for the teens that entered its doors, it was a haven for all purses and wallets alike. Getting smashed on a £3.10 "pangalactic gargle blaster" was the highlight of the night. We immersed ourselves into this sci-fi underground, meeting people both 14 and 40, only to have to get a taxi into college the next day.

As the blog title suggests, my friends and I are now aged 20+. The last time I stepped foot into the said club I was a meagre 17, and ended up meeting someone who I definitely wish I hadn't met. Bad memories aside and nostalgia en vogue, my friends and I returned to the said club at midnight-- this being after our taxi driver stopped at a petrol station for twenty minutes, leading us to question his potential status as a serial killer. Late and bladdered, we were determined to wreak havoc on the place that had given us all of our alcoholic education, paying back the price for the stained clothes and gin- induced tears.

Disregarding The Smiths, Pixies and The Cure that was infiltrating the upstairs room, we moved over to the retro request book to taint it with three pages begging for some Kanye and Jay-Z, only to be told numerous times that "we do not play that sort of stuff here". Ending the request with Love Will Tear Us Apart, we lied and procured drinks by alternating between stage names such as Gertrude and Candice to confessing alternately that we were 15/30 today and if we didn't hear the radio shouting about fish fillet we would have to stamp on their toes. These minions walked up to the DJ, only to see his face reddening even more for one 5'2 creature to be victim of "IF ANYONE REQUESTS THAT SONG ONE MORE TIME I WILL THROW THEM OUT!". Oops. Needless to say, when I went to request Love Will Tear Us Apart once more, that didn't go down well either.

After pretending to be German, Swedish and Russian, we were catapulted out of the club fifteen minutes later, only just into the early hours and still desperate to party. Another club rejection down the line and a box of cheesy chips later, I passed out on my best friend's sofa. Now THAT is seventeen year old behaviour.

                                                           note: face hidden to hide shame.