Life in Cartagena

School term is over in Spain. It's summer. Nearly everyone from Cartagena is at the beach. The town is quiet and we are done, at least till the new academic year when I'll be back to do a bit more English teaching. We've cleared everything from the flat. We've carted our belongings up the road to Culebrón. We've handed over the keys of the flat. So goodbye to town life for a while and goodbye to Cartagena till I get back there in hot and sticky September. In the meanwhile you can follow our adventures (sic) at Life in Culebrón

So, I'm in the waiting room in the health centre at eight in the morning. The process for taking blood is quick, a production line. There are maybe thirty of us in the room. I'm sitting there with my left leg crossed over my right. I shuffle, right over left. I'm reading. As the electronic scoreboard closes in on my number I lose interest in the book and my gaze wanders around the room. I am the only person with my legs crossed. Everyone else, young and old, male and female has their legs akimbo - both feet firmly planted on the floor. I mentioned this to Carlos. I asked other Spaniards. Amazingly they confirmed, with plenty of exceptions and extra detail, that crossing ones legs is not very Spanish. I still don't really think it's true. Interesting if it were though.

It has recently become necessary for foreigners to declare any overseas holdings in cash, property or goods with a value of over 50,000€. This has caused a bit of a stir amongst some of our compatriots. I was checking to make sure that there wasn't any small print which affected Maggie or me. The stories of problems of interpretation, using the form etc. were legion. Recently I completed my annual tax return. I was happy to do so because this year I got a rebate. Whilst I was in financial mode I sifted through a few of the expat websites to check that my Teachers Pension, a government pension, as distinct from the state pension, was not eligible for Spanish tax as it has to be taxed at source in the UK. No problem. I seem to be perfectly legal. As I read I realised that lots of Britons who are living on their UK state pension here in Spain want to be squeaky clean and declare their pensions to the Spanish tax people. As the amounts they get are covered by the Spanish tax...

I've thought of a wizard wheeze to keep the number of posts up. It was Cruces de mayo over the weekend. May Crosses - shrines I suppose dominated by a cross and with an Andalucian theme. Obviously this is blog material even down to the brightly coloured photos . The trouble is I've done it before. We also went to a sort of Mediaeval re-enactment up in the Castillo de la Concepción but that smacks a bit too much of the "dear diary" sort of blog. One problem for your average ethno-sociological commentator is the unflinching cyclicity of Spanish life.The same things keep coming around. I've complained before about the posters for circuses and other shows which say "in the usual place" The fact is that, as a circus operator, you can save a bundle of advertising costs by printing just the one size fits all poster. The circus will be in the same place as it was last year and the year before that and so on. It's only the occasional outsider who wil...

We've been busy this weekend. Flamenco, old pals and lots of eating. Last night we went for an Indian with a couple that we met in the UK some years ago. She's Spanish, he's from the UK. We went relatively early and got to the restaurant about 9.30. It was odd, a big pink industrial unit on a small industrial estate in not the most exciting part of the region. The pink building had an elephant motif. There were lots of cars parked outside. Inside it was humming. Nearly all the tables full. Waiters rusing here and there. The odd word of Engliish floated through the ether. Most of the diners were, like us, slightly pink from the recent sunny days and British. The Spanish member of our group took on minor celebrity status amongst the waiters which lasted the whole evening. We had to wait a few minutes for a table. We got our drinks. We read the menus. We ordered. As we crunched through the papadums people were leaving. As the waiter handed out the various rices and mai...

I didn't think it was a difficult question. What do you have for breakfast? It's one of those traditional little questions for English language learners. Now Maggie often guffaws at those adverts on the telly for beauty products. You know the ones, 83% of all women think that our wonder cream reduced their wrinkles in just seven days. She is sniggering at the low sample given in small print at the bottom of the screen - from a sample of 86 women. My sample is even lower but earlier this week in a conversation class I asked a group of beginners what they had for breakfast. It isn't the first time I've asked the question and so I wasn't surprised that people drank milk, ate biscuits or considered that pouring Nesquik type flavoured milk on their cereals constituted both food and drink. The next day I used the same question about breakfast instead of the more usual question about what they had done the day before, over the weekend or some such. The difference wa...

Maggie's text read that Laurel and Hardy were in our flat. They agreed with us that it was the water heater that was the problem. As I type a different double act are wreaking havoc in our kitchen. There's a puddle of rusty water on the floor, the shelves have been dismantled and jars of chickpeas and jelly sweets are spread across all the kitchen work-surfaces whilst the body odour of one of the men is assailing my nostrils even though he's at least ten metres and three rooms away. One of the great delights of rented property is that someone else will be paying. I reckon the tank alone will be about 450€ without the comedy duos time. It's not really our concern how ham fisted the tradesmen are as long as it all goes back together, more or less as before and that it all works in the end. It'll be better when they've gone though. For the past few days, the circuit breakers in the house have been tripping at the most inopportune times. Alarm clocks that don...

In my formative years those French went in for that kissing each other thing. Britons on the other hand, shook hands. I know; we were all repressed. I am aware that nowadays if we don't hug our kids, high five at the least pretext or perform a mutual back massage on everyone we meet there is a real risk to our self esteem and general mental well being. Personally I don't really care if someone I hardly know wants to slap me on the back or give me a bear hug. Well apart from thinking that it's hypocritical tosh that is. It's a bit like "I love you" at the end of a phone call. Fair enough, nice sentiment and especially when said with feeling. But as a sort of Christmas cracker motto substitute for goodbye? I don't like the hugging though for a very practical reason. I have no idea how I am supposed to do it. As vague acquaintances move into my personal space in their attempt to hug, kiss or exchange bodily fluids with me I usually end up treading on th...

My father used to complain that having a bath was like soaking in a tub of soiled water. His heavy water use compromise was a soak in the tub to relax and then shower to clean up. In our house we still wash up by hand. At school there was a poster explaining how it should be done properly. Fill the bowl with very hot water then wash by turn first the glassware, then the crockery and finally the pots and pans. Cutlery can be added at any stage. By the time you get onto scrubbing the pans the floating grease and food is quite noticeable. Afterwards air drying or tea towels were both acceptable. The Spanish system has, traditionally, been to swill the debris from the plates under running water then to use a soapy cloth/scourer on the stubborn stains again under running water. Generally they go for air drying rather than tea towels with lots of kitchens having neat drying racks hidden in what look like kitchen cupboards. We were talking today, in one of my classes, about using les...

Outside the flat we have a box for all the advertising blurb that people deliver. The supermarket offers, mega deals on beds or super special deals on computers. Most of it goes straight to the recycling bin. The other day though there was a small ad for a dog walking service. I thought it was interesting. Most Spaniards I teach are relatively well off. Talking to them I don't get the idea that many of them have "servants". If the kids need parking somewhere before they are old enough for nursery, kindergarten or school or after they come home from them it tends to be with the grandparents rather than with child minders. Cleaners are pretty common but they don't seem to do the ironing or the laundry. My perception is that, unlike middle class Britons, there is not a culture of buying people's labour to give the better off middle classes more free time. So a dog walker is out of the ordinary. Of course it may well be someone just having a go, they may not rea...

Within the expat community there are shades of opinion whether it's legal to drive on a UK licence or not. I decided that it was safer to get a Spanish licence so I exchanged my UK one for a Spanish one. When Spaniards first get their licence and every time that it is renewed they have a sort of medical that checks general health, eyesight, hearing, reactions and what not. It is not difficult and I know what it involves because, when I was still driving on my UK licence, I wasn't sure whether I needed to do the medical or not so, again, I chose the safest option and did one. When I exchanged my licence I was not asked for a medical certificate so I presumed that the Spanish authorities took it on trust that I was medically fit because I had a UK licence. I thought I wouldn't have to take the medical until my Spanish licence became due for renewal in 2022. However the medical certificate I had expired last week and it made me wonder whether I was driving legally or not...

My mum is here with us in Cartagena at the moment. To welcome her it's raining. A sort of persistent English rain, heavy at times and very wet. Rain is not that common in our part of Spain. It happens of course but it's quite unusual and often it pelts down for a while and then brightens up pretty quickly. It has been raining on and off now for about 24 hours. I popped out to a bookshop last night and about half way there, past the point of no return, it began in earnest. I realised as I walked that the rain causes certain behaviours on Spanish streets. The first thing is the magical appearance of umbrellas. Where people hide their brollies is a mystery to me but, as soon as it starts, out they come. They're a menace. Sharp pointy spines to scratch along the side of my head as a normally narrow person misjudges their new width. It's an attempt to do what a whole arsenal of sucker guns failed to do in my childhood. Just as the rain starts there is the wall huggin...

On a weekday morning in Cartagena it's usually the sound of the street sweeping machine. On a Sunday morning it's a man playing a violin. Back in Culebrón it's more likely to be dogs barking or the cars swishing past on the main road. Always something that seeps into my consciousness as sleep fades away. The cicadas are just for summer and for much later in the day . Saturday, out for a stroll; as we left the house we commented on the never ending tide of humanity passing the top of our street, just metres from our front door. The difficulty of navigating around people. There's no doubt about the sound either. It's a sort of low volume hum that comes from all the people talking as they walk. Sometimes the monotone is broken by a child's cry or a some rough metallic sound as waiter's shift tables around but that hum is something characteristic.

This post is very long. It's not the usual chit chat about something I've done or something that happened to me. I showed it to Maggie for checking. "It's a bit long," she said " And a bit of a rant," "Is it boring," I asked "Well, err, a bit," she said. But it took me hours to write and the typist's chair has made my back ache so I'll be damned if I'm not going to use it. You have been warned. ___________________________________________________ Drinking coffee. Huffing with indignation as another phrase sank into an oblivion of overcomplexity. The usual sort of scene in the bar Capitolio for one of my weekly intercambios - the exchange of English for Spanish conversation. We were talking about Spanish business, attitudes to work and education. Actually, before I forget, a little episode. We were leaving. We'd been in the bar nearly two hours and drunk just four coffees. The bill came to 3.70€. The pers...

Thirty five years ago I was fed up of wearing glasses and I wanted contact lenses. The optician told me how my dreadful astigmatism and generally poor eyesight made lenses a nonsense. He sold me a nice pair of specs. But, later that afternoon, rich enough at the time to bear an expensive mistake, I went back, cancelled the specs and ordered lenses instead. I still wear them. I did try to get some new ones here a few years ago. Long story but I'm still wearing a pair I bought in the UK before I left. Time to get some new ones. The optician's shop looked like any other. Rows of spectacle frames on display, businesslike, clean. It turned out that the contact lens section was in some huge cavernous basement. The person who took me there was wearing all white kit - white top, white skirt, white shoes. She also had straw coloured wavy hair. She handed me over to a woman who was wearing all white kit - white top, white trousers, white shirt. In fact all the female staff were dre...

I was wandering around the Mercadona supermarket hunting for salad dressing. I tried the fruit and vegetable coolers - that's where the dressings lurk in Consum and el Corte Inglés - I looked amongst the mayonnaises, barbecue sauces and ketchups before trying the olives and jars of pickled carrots section and, finally, when it wasn't with the olive oils and vinegars I gave up. It's possible they don't have salad dressing in the French Dressing, Thousand Islands mould. After all Spaniards generally dress their salads with oil, vinegar and salt and don't feel the need to add strawberry or mustard flavours. Mercadona is now the biggest retail outlet in Spain but one of the secrets of its success is to sell its own brand and to keep the choice fairly limited. If Mr Mercadona, Juan Roig, doesn't think they'll shift enough salad dressing off the shelves they won't sell it.  I've lived here a while now. I've been to supermarkets hundreds of ...

In your flat the entryphone goes buzz. If you can hear a similar muffled buzz from flats above, below and to the side you know that someone wants to gain access to the building. They're not, probably, after you. Now, if you are feeling charitable and not in the middle of some personal hygiene ritual or atop a stepladder (and 99% of the time you are) you might pick up the phone. The format is not polite, the format is short and does not start with a greeting. "Yes?" or "Who?" are common. The answer is usually short too. It may be the neighbour's daughter with some long explanation about why she has no key or it may be  the electric people who need access to some dark and distant part of the building but usually it isn't. Most often it's the postie. They announce themselves with whatever is their political take on the Spanish for postal carrier. No more conversation you just buzz them in. Now, even if it isn't the postman/postwoman but it is, ...

I don't want forelock tugging. Brisk is OK, brusque even. What I actually like is a greeting, an appropriate interchange, payment and the farewell. So the woman who sold me the sandals and joked about Brits wearing socks, the man in el Corte Inglés who explained why one set of earphones outperformed another, the person in Mercadona who asks me if I want a bag and the woman in the bar who says hello as she makes me the same sort of coffee as always all get my approval. But the cashier in Consum who talked to a co-worker whilst she scanned the items and then tapped the till display for the total, the cashier in Más y Más and the woman in the Chinese cheapo shop who both spent their time on their mobiles chatting to pals before deigning to spit out the price and the woman this morning in the newsagent who felt that it was acceptable to chat to her pal about some lad's measles for three or four minutes whilst I stood there waiting to buy a paper do not. No, what happens there...

A friend, over from the UK, was telling me how he had nearly slaughtered a whole zebra crossing load of pedestrians as he turned right at some traffic lights. He had waited, dutifully, for the green but there is a standard difference to the light sequence here in Spain as against the setup in the UK. Traditionally the UK system gives the cars which have been released a clear run as they go either straight on or make a turn. In Spain cars are often stopped again by the same set of lights on turning right or left. If you're not expecting it finding a bunch of pedestrians crossing in front of you, as you accelerate away, can be a bit of a shock. Roundabouts are different too. In reality most Spanish drivers behave as their British counterparts do. They attempt to cut the corners in the roundabout and they use all the available traffic lanes. But the rule is different. Technically you have to be in the outermost (the longest) lane in order to leave the roundabout. The only people w...

I'm reading a Spanish book called "Contra la sinceridad" - against sincerity. It's basic premise, so far as I can tell, is that sincerity or honesty is often a bad thing. "I know everyone else says you're a fool but you seem OK to me," or "Crikey, you're a lot fatter than the last time I saw you." Possibly your version of the truth but maybe better not said. Anyway one of his little stories goes like this: In dealing with children the English - who are maybe the most hypocritical and least sincere social beings on Earth - practice this distancing with a cool efficiency. Whilst the Spanish shout across the table "Manolito, don't eat the chicken with your fingers!" the English say, calmly, arching their eyebrows across the starched white linen, - "Manolitoooo!" and the English Manolito guiltily returns to his meal as if he had been given a severe beating. Meanwhile the Spanish child continues to run around, get t...