Weird Girl Notes: A Spanish Interlude
(To expand my blog's scope, I've decided to include new pieces and some non fic writing from time to time. This is the first of a series I'll call Weird Girl Notes).
The week before the May bank holiday is generally an occasion for great joy in our household, since Cariad and I like to go away for a few days. Following a happy discovery the other year, our resort of choice is Sitges in Spain.
Sitges has a lot to recommend it. Italianate / Moorish architecture, gourmet food, a selection of peerless beaches (more later) - in a country blighted by package tourism, it's wonderfully unspoilt. It's also extremely gay. Thanks to a thriving scene, we don't have to do that wearisome routine where Cariad books the room and I hide around the corner, looking like a scruffy little gigolo.
I love abroad, but it does magnify certain facets of my personality. The first is that I'm jaw droppingly gauche. I'm convinced that while other people are kitted out with sophisticated social software, I was given a toaster manual by mistake, so muddle along the best I can. If I can unwittingly offend someone, blurt out a non sequitur or fall into a bin, I will do it. This tendency goes into overdrive in another country: I say "please" and "thank you" too often, misinterpret signs and can never get the hang of not paying until you leave. Add to that a preternatural ability to get sunburnt, even when I apply sunblock with a trowel, and I'm the archetypal British twit abroad.
The second, to my eternal chagrin, is I can't speak other languages. I do try - somehow I managed to scrape Bs in GCSE French and German - but they stubbornly refuse to stick. The stock response to my gabble is horrified fascination followed by pity, and a hasty switch to English. My strategy is to velcro myself to Cariad, who has a terrific ear for languages, and mumble sheepishly when required.
With these handicaps in place, I hope I haven't acquitted myself too shabbily. After a cosy evening with the in laws, we got up at silly o'clock to go to Liverpool John Lennon Airport. The taxi driver dropped us off miles from the terminal, claiming we'd be charged two quid if we went nearer. Is this true? It sounded fishy to us.
Once again we were "randomly" frisked (perhaps two women travelling together really is cause for comment); once again a family of gobshites hogged our luggage space. Though it could have been worse: the poor chap sitting next to me kept drooping against the chair in front, only for its occupant to lean back and wake up.
Returning to Sitges, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was so worried it would have altered in some indefinable but tangible way. Instead it retained its unique flavour: no compromises to pander to popular tastes, yet modern and cosmopolitan. We've spent the week both visiting old friends and making new ones.
One of our favourite features is the variety of beaches, catering for both families and pickups. Obviously we're interested in neither, but one is a must for the dedicated student of human nature: the nudist beach. I'll be honest: I have more hang ups than a coat rack. I'm shaped like a teddy bear and would never inflict myself in a bikini on the population. But once you've recovered from the false modesty imposed by society, it's liberating. It's amazing how quickly you become desensitised to the sight of so much flesh - after the first few titters at bits that wobble and bibble, naked tennis seems perfectly natural.
The primary goal of the holiday was to recharge our batteries, though arguably you could do that anywhere. Sitges belongs to Catalonia, and no trip to the region would be complete without a day in Barcelona. Whether you're gazing at a Gaudi fantasia or touring one of the many museums, it gives a glimpse of Spanish cultural life that the coastal towns can't touch. This time it fulfilled a long held wish: aged 29, I had never visited a zoo. Luckily Barcelona boasts one of the finest in Europe.
Cue three fun, informative hours where we strolled and snapped our furry, feathered and scaled friends. Cariad can provide proof that bears don't just crap in the woods; we were menaced by a peacock and his moll who wanted our ice creams. Speaking of peacocks, they kept photo bombing the other animals until we were sick of the sight of them. I was tickled by a sign that, taken at face value, warns: "Parents! Don't feed your children to the bears!" There was a roving gang of stray cats; one hopped into the lion enclosure and posed next to the sign.
An incorrigible pessimist, I expected my visit to be a letdown; instead seeing lions, tigers and bears genuinely inspired a sense of, "Oh, my!" I enjoyed creeping Cariad out by explaining the habits of the Komodo dragon and jigged when I met the ant eater, possibly my favourite animal. God's own weirdos, they're so outlandish and odd, you can't help but smile when one wiffles towards you. And at least you know it wouldn't devour you if its fence was blown down.
Spain is splendid, whether you're talking jugs of sangria, the defecating figurines known as caganers, churros dipped in molten chocolate or the subtle differences between Castilian Spanish and Catalan. Whatever the future of the area, I will always be its friend, and always want to visit.
The week before the May bank holiday is generally an occasion for great joy in our household, since Cariad and I like to go away for a few days. Following a happy discovery the other year, our resort of choice is Sitges in Spain.
Sitges has a lot to recommend it. Italianate / Moorish architecture, gourmet food, a selection of peerless beaches (more later) - in a country blighted by package tourism, it's wonderfully unspoilt. It's also extremely gay. Thanks to a thriving scene, we don't have to do that wearisome routine where Cariad books the room and I hide around the corner, looking like a scruffy little gigolo.
I love abroad, but it does magnify certain facets of my personality. The first is that I'm jaw droppingly gauche. I'm convinced that while other people are kitted out with sophisticated social software, I was given a toaster manual by mistake, so muddle along the best I can. If I can unwittingly offend someone, blurt out a non sequitur or fall into a bin, I will do it. This tendency goes into overdrive in another country: I say "please" and "thank you" too often, misinterpret signs and can never get the hang of not paying until you leave. Add to that a preternatural ability to get sunburnt, even when I apply sunblock with a trowel, and I'm the archetypal British twit abroad.
The second, to my eternal chagrin, is I can't speak other languages. I do try - somehow I managed to scrape Bs in GCSE French and German - but they stubbornly refuse to stick. The stock response to my gabble is horrified fascination followed by pity, and a hasty switch to English. My strategy is to velcro myself to Cariad, who has a terrific ear for languages, and mumble sheepishly when required.
With these handicaps in place, I hope I haven't acquitted myself too shabbily. After a cosy evening with the in laws, we got up at silly o'clock to go to Liverpool John Lennon Airport. The taxi driver dropped us off miles from the terminal, claiming we'd be charged two quid if we went nearer. Is this true? It sounded fishy to us.
Once again we were "randomly" frisked (perhaps two women travelling together really is cause for comment); once again a family of gobshites hogged our luggage space. Though it could have been worse: the poor chap sitting next to me kept drooping against the chair in front, only for its occupant to lean back and wake up.
Returning to Sitges, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was so worried it would have altered in some indefinable but tangible way. Instead it retained its unique flavour: no compromises to pander to popular tastes, yet modern and cosmopolitan. We've spent the week both visiting old friends and making new ones.
One of our favourite features is the variety of beaches, catering for both families and pickups. Obviously we're interested in neither, but one is a must for the dedicated student of human nature: the nudist beach. I'll be honest: I have more hang ups than a coat rack. I'm shaped like a teddy bear and would never inflict myself in a bikini on the population. But once you've recovered from the false modesty imposed by society, it's liberating. It's amazing how quickly you become desensitised to the sight of so much flesh - after the first few titters at bits that wobble and bibble, naked tennis seems perfectly natural.
The primary goal of the holiday was to recharge our batteries, though arguably you could do that anywhere. Sitges belongs to Catalonia, and no trip to the region would be complete without a day in Barcelona. Whether you're gazing at a Gaudi fantasia or touring one of the many museums, it gives a glimpse of Spanish cultural life that the coastal towns can't touch. This time it fulfilled a long held wish: aged 29, I had never visited a zoo. Luckily Barcelona boasts one of the finest in Europe.
Cue three fun, informative hours where we strolled and snapped our furry, feathered and scaled friends. Cariad can provide proof that bears don't just crap in the woods; we were menaced by a peacock and his moll who wanted our ice creams. Speaking of peacocks, they kept photo bombing the other animals until we were sick of the sight of them. I was tickled by a sign that, taken at face value, warns: "Parents! Don't feed your children to the bears!" There was a roving gang of stray cats; one hopped into the lion enclosure and posed next to the sign.
An incorrigible pessimist, I expected my visit to be a letdown; instead seeing lions, tigers and bears genuinely inspired a sense of, "Oh, my!" I enjoyed creeping Cariad out by explaining the habits of the Komodo dragon and jigged when I met the ant eater, possibly my favourite animal. God's own weirdos, they're so outlandish and odd, you can't help but smile when one wiffles towards you. And at least you know it wouldn't devour you if its fence was blown down.
Spain is splendid, whether you're talking jugs of sangria, the defecating figurines known as caganers, churros dipped in molten chocolate or the subtle differences between Castilian Spanish and Catalan. Whatever the future of the area, I will always be its friend, and always want to visit.
No comments have been added yet.
