10 Spanish things better than their UK equivalents (Part I)

Five years in sunny Spain is plenty of time I reckon to make an objective comparison between the place I left and the one I now call home. In no particular order then, here are ten things I think Spain does just a tad, (actually, considerably), better than the United Kingdom.

Pulpo a la Gallega

Food - sure Inglaterra has cottage pie, Yorkshire puds, Cornish pasties and hotpot - but where would you like me to start with the Mediterranean alternatives ? We'll kick off with tapas shall we, quite possibly one of the best culinary inventions ever - period. First things first, tapas is not/aren't a starter or an "entrada," moreover it's the perfect way to eat as little or as much as you like. Moving swiftly on, the regional options dwarf those availible over the water and the list really is endless. A couple at random: Paella originated in the Valencia region and over the years the signature dish of the Communidad Valenciana has travelled far and wide with different versions evolving depending on whereabouts in the country you ask for it. Pulpo a la Gallega - Octopus from Galicia, the very best eight legged seafood Spain has to offer and a speciality of the Galicia region of Spain directly to the north of Portugal with an Atlantic coastline just south of  the Bay of Biscay.

La Gota Fria often wreaks indiscriminate havoc

The weather - the obvious one but impossible to ignore unfortunately. Obviously the postcards would have you believe that for nine months of the year Spain cooks beaneath a cloudless blue sky, I wouldn't say as many as nine to be honest, for perhaps four months it's a bit on the warm side and at a push, five. For the rest of the year though nothing is off limits weather wise, which includes biblical rains and enough snow in certain areas to sustain some pretty pricey ski resorts. Don't believe everything someone sends you from their summer holidays, during November, December and January my woolly hat, gloves and scarf are most definitely not redundant. Following weeks and weeks where the temperature hovers on or above 40 degrees day after day, towards the end of September a bizarre and, I think unique, weather phenomenon known as La Gota Fria looms large and is a distinct possibility for at least a month. In short, certain unlucky areas can expect torrential rains which leave streets under water and many small towns unable to cope with the deluge.

Outrageous prices for UK faves

Prices - erm, they're quite a bit lower for almost everything. I suppose the best rule of thumb is what costs a quid in the United Kingdom will set you back a euro in Spain. I don't know, say, pizzas - Domino's Pizza in the UK would politely ask you to part with nine quid for example, but over here a very similar order would run to nine of those funny European thingy's. Obviously, currency exchange fluctuations have an impact so at today's rate it would be, give or take, about £7.50 - a couple of years ago holiday makers heading for the Costa's would have secured even better rates of exchange and, thus, even better value. Generally speaking, most things, for example - petrol for the car, a pint of beer, a restaurant meal, cigarettes, basically all the crucial stuff is about twenty per cent cheaper. The exceptions to this rule are the kinds of stuff ex-pats in Spain can't seem to do without; i.e., Marmite, The Sun newspaper, Branston pickle and Heinz spaghetti hoops, to name but a few. For these and other household names from Tesco, expect to be shamelessly ripped off!

A simple system no-one is baffled by

Dustbins - by that I mean a direct comparison between the seemingly haphazard UK "system" and the slick organisation of Spain where trash of all kinds is removed the day people dump it. From memory, British households are issued with about thirteen different coloured receptacles, each of which is designated as being for specific types of household waste. Woe betide any harassed English mum who inadvertently puts an empty fish finger box in the container for grass cuttings and green mulch because that hidden camera within is capable of issuing a spot fine!  In continental Southern Europe it's altogether simpler, every fourth or fifth block in mosts towns you come across a group of three or four big old bins for paper, glass, organic waste and one more for the rest. Once a night, the two niffy ones, (organic and everything else), are emptied by a massive great truck which makes its rounds as everyone is fast asleep. Paper and glass are emptied in the same method once the containers are full, usually weekly. It really isn't rocket science!!

Señoritas - yes please

Ladies - it might be something to do with all that olive oil, I'm not entirely sure what, but by and large Spanish ladies are actually quite fit. Blondes may well have all the fun, but I guarantee you leggy brown eyed brunettes get most of the admiring glances. Although it's my blog and I can write exactly what I want, I'd better stop now because someone, more than likely an anaemic looking British woman, is bound to label me a sexist. I would just add though that I've spent the last four years of my life living with one of the aforementioned señoritas so I am perfectly well qualified and competent to judge the differences.
PS - I've had the privilege and pleasure of knowing some amazing non -Spanish females throughout my life, some of whom remain dear friends that I trust implicitly and there's one in particular I will always adore.


That's the top half - my final five will be coming up shortly.

Wake up and smell the coffee

The price of a cuppa

It matters very little that the price of a cup is three times more expensive in the UK than Spain, but if you tried nursing one for three hours with a book or laptop in any kind of British cafe, you'd soon get asked to leave or buy another one. In Spain though, drinking coffee is the kind of  pleasure even the hardest bitten cafeteria owners understand and actively seem to encourage. And do you know the best thing, out here you can join in with your Compaq or John Grisham and all for not much more than a Euro.

Truth be told it's probably far simpler to brew up in your own kitchen, indeed some folk, but not many, actually do. Only once you live in Spain can you appreciate the allure of a lengthy glance at that days newspaper whilst people watching from a cafe terrace supping from a cup full of any one of a multitude of different hot beverage options, all of which include coffee beans. Personally, I fell in love with the cafe culture not long after arriving in the country, whilst simultaneously figuring out four or five daily rations of caffeine without milk and sugar probably wasn't conducive to a decent night's sleep. Thereafter de-caf, (descafeinado), was the order of the day - something akin to loving the pub but only drinking alcohol free lager I guess.

Loads to choose from

In Spain, late morning is coffee time and the bar owner can set his or her watch by which regular is in and when. It doesn't matter where you choose, the scenario you're faced with is almost always identical; shop girls pop in for a cafe con leche and a baguette prior to opening up about nine thirty, sharp suited business types, groups of three or four middle aged ladies, young couples, and, my personal favourite, gnarled up old blokes noisily slamming dominoes onto polished tables, narrowly missing tiny cups of super strength dark liquid. People from all walks of life swing by and on their way out pass on to the next table the latest edition of El Pais newspaper or Marca sports daily. This then is the typical clientele of a typical cafeteria in any number of typical towns on a typical work day morning.

Out you go

But suddenly, for about half of these ordinary folk, things would never be the same again because as New Year's Day effortlessly became Sunday the 2nd of January, Spain enacted the harshest anti-smoking laws in Europe and the hazy happiness of countless Marlboro Lite aficionados up and down the country was lost forever. Actually, that last bit isn't actually true, anyone who wishes can still indulge in their carcinogenic bliss but only outside and not near kiddies playgrounds, school gates or adjacent to hospitals. I've not smoked for fourteen months, and so now, as an ex-puffer, I need to find a piece of fence strong enough to support my considerable weight and then sit on it. The new law also now includes restaurants which is a great idea because dining out of an evening almost invariably includes the whole family, children included. Fags in the work place were banned five years ago- er, maybe I should rephrase that, but I think you know what I mean. This too isn't such a bad thing because non-smokers amongst the work force are there all day and breathing in their colleagues second hand blue mist, just like the passive smokers in an eating establishment, isn't optional.

But, from my humble point of view, it's the now sanitised and considerably less busy cafeterias that have lost the most and no longer resemble a snapshot of traditional Spanish life; an impression emphasised by customers being compelled to leave their half drunk brews to huddle in doorways or share body warmth out in the street tapping the ends of various cigarettes into already over full ashtrays. Still, at least the Spanish aren't banished outside in the cold and rain whilst being mugged for a tenner every time they buy a packet of twenty.

SPAIN: The land that time forgot

Don't be mis-led by the title of this blog entry, the Iberian peninsula isn't still populated by dinosaurs and giant pterodactyls that crap on your car twenty seconds after you finish washing it, Spain is actually an incredibly progressive 21st century European nation. But, there is a but. It's also a country where, to a man or woman, the natives could live their entire lives without the use of a clock or wristwatch. Sure, they both exist but the former is only for decorating the kitchen wall and the latter solely to flaunt wealth. I'll explain.

Back in dear old Blightly, my five working days a week always featured tear-arsing to or from an office, the gymnasium, the bank in my lunch hour or my Mum's to quickly sluice a hot coffee and dash out again. In Spain I don't think anyone has ever done anything at anytime, ever, that involves using the words 'tear' and 'arsing' simultaneously, that I guess is half the reason most Brit's came here, the altogether slower pace of life. Maybe it's just me, but once in a while that slower pace of life thing - which I love, absolutely love I mean - kind of plays havoc with the old social life. As a relative newcomer to the land of sun and sangria, I've been here nearly five years, I guess I've a way to go before I lose my punctual British habits, especially when it comes to meeting a group of, (native), friends for a pre-arranged night out.

About a month ago we'd organised a meal with seven or eight other people, it was a Saturday night and the plan was to meet at nine pm at a small restaurant, close to the river, near our house. Thinking nothing of it, I'd dutifully shaved and showered, if memory serves I might even have ironed a shirt, and by about ten to nine I was ready for inspection and my usual enquiry "does my bum look big in these?" I saw the problem immediately. The girlyfriend was stood in front of the bathroom mirror with wet hair and a towel around her, from experience I knew the pair of us were at least forty minutes away from leaving the house. Eventually, I think it was still Saturday, we arrived at the rendezvous, and do you know what? We were only the second of four couples to arrive!

A similar thing happened last weekend, albeit with a smaller group and no restaurant table booked. Fifteen minutes before the scheduled start of our drinks and tapas kind of a night out, yours truly was loafing about on the sofa in my trollies and little else, face buried behind a book I couldn't put down, when guess who walked in looking pretty tasty? Yup, her! "Oh" was the best best I could feebly muster, before dashing off to polish a pair of shoes. This is the problem you see, if a rule book exists, I've never seen it and Spanish folk seem to know it off by heart anyway. I don't actually expect my hosts to be like the Swiss with their metronomic efficiency, or perish the thought, some of those charmless folk from the Fatherland, but it would be ever so useful if the locals in my world could be a wee bit better organised.

Back in August I had a job interview for which I arrived on the dot of four thirty suited and booted, and, finding the office I had to be at unattended, I waited outside in the street. Compelled to stand in what little shade was offered by a lamp post - it was still bloody hot - my prospective new boss eventually pitched up after about twenty odd minutes had passed. I could tell by his facial expression this was shaping up to be a bit of a lose-lose situation. Had I wandered along that late, he would have been mighty unimpressed, in the end I never got the job; probably because he was a tad pissed off at having to interrupt his siesta to rush back to work to see me.

That's the problem you see, Spain is so laid back time seems to mean very little to most folk. Spanish people automatically know when to take coffee, (mid to late morning), and when to have their main meal of the day, (late-ish evening). Not one single native has adequately explained to me when buenos días (good morning) ends and buenas tardes (good afternoon) begins. I do have my own theory though and I think it's something to with the sun. If ever I arrange to meet the girlyfriend, (Spanish, obviously), for breakfast, I always take breakfast before I leave the house, if not, I would have passed out from hunger long before she deigns to arrive. Heaven only knows how this amazing country of about 46 million people manages to run a railway network or operate it's airports.

The land that time forgot ? Nah, the land that forgot the time more like!!

A grand day out - NOT!

The stunning Valencia railway station building

Deep into my immature adulthood I'm still fascinated by trains, to me they're one of those things just like Christmas and peanut butter on toast I don't think I'll ever grow out of. When the girlyfriend suggested we head off to Valencia on the old choo-choo I had a bit of a job not to bite her hand off, instead, I made do with a nonchalant "yeah why not?" Until she left the room; at which point I leapt up and punched my right fist in and out at waist height various times in celebration.

Rather conveniently, the following Tuesday, October the 12th, was a National holiday in Spain, not just any old one though, only the grandly titled "Dia de la Hispanidad" the national day of Spanish speaking nations around the world. But, and and just like Jennifer Lopez it's a big butt, the five day weather forecast looked a bit ominous, That didn't stop me booking the tickets though, quite possibly something to do with my huge excitement at the notion of a lengthy railway journey. An eagerness that completely ignored the worries of her inside the doors, who, being the voice of reason, quite sensibly suggested we postpone the trip and stay home in the dry.
 "Nah, we'll be fine"  I said,  "if worst comes we can always dive into a cinema until it stops"



Don't buy shit umbrellas - they're dangerous

Unfortunately, half way to the regional capital spots of rain began to spatter the carriage window, and on arrival it was absolutely wazzing down. First priority then was an umbrella apiece, simple enough because Valencia Nord is one of those railway halts that resemble a small sized town centre with one of every conceivable kind of shop. Six euros apiece later we were prepared for the worst mother nature could hurl at us as the proud owners of a couple of nifty looking umbrellas. How wrong the pair of us were. Attempting to inflate my bargain five quid brolly prior to stepping outside, the stupid thing badly sliced my right index finger, rendering it unable to operate the shutter on my camera. Quite an important part of our day out. While the girlyfriend took care of my haemorrhaging finger, I caught sight of three opportunist coloured lads knocking out umbrellas at two for a fiver. By now I was starting to regret persuading her Ladyship not to postpone the trip.



Paris on the Costa Blanca

Even on the wettest October day since records began Valencia is an incredible city, it's tree lined avenues and unbelievable architecture put me in mind of Paris; the only difference being Valencian natives actually give a shit about visitors to their city and do what they can to make them feel welcome. However hard the locals tried to do that, and believe me they did, the weather was starting to become somewhat depressing and getting worse. By about the third museum and fourth cafeteria, my shoes and socks were wet through and the damp had reached knee height on my jeans. Even our attempts to seek respite aboard the open top Valencia tourist bus were thwarted as the damned thing pulled away just as we reached the stop. Just as well I guess because looking at the empty top deck, the fifty people jammed in dowstairs had steamed all the windows up anyway.

My new footwear - ideal for the beach and wet days

Eventually, two hours after we should have done we gave it up as a bad job and headed back to the railway station, soaked through and thoroughly pissed off, three hours early for our return train. A massive queue and a tenner extra secured two seats in first class on the slow train leaving for Alicante departing an hour earlier at half six, a further ninety minutes to hang around, time well spent trying to purchase over priced dry socks which, by this point, had become a high priority. It suddenly occurred to me nice new, and not cheap, socks would be a bit daft inside wet through shoes, so the dripping wet socks went straight into the nearest bin, my very moist truzzie legs were rolled up to reveal half my shins and I emerged from the store resplendent in spangly new red and blue flip-flops.

Just time then for yet another unnecessary coffee, which was a good call in the end because the platform-side cafeteria put a smile on my face for the first time in what had become a deeply disappointing day out. Or rather, it's mixed sex bog did! To the side of the single lavatory door was a microscopic notice requesting patrons ask at the bar for the key. A steady stream of both ladies and gents, all keen to spend a penny, tried and failed to gain access because they failed to see the tiny little sign, their increasingly perplexed facial expressions caused me untold mirth, one gormless berk failed to figure it out even after I pointed to the side of the door four times. I sussed it out immediately and dived inside just as the previous occupant vacated the premises.

A grand day out ? - Had better!!

They all speak funny Mum (Part III)

I don't live in a medium sized English enclave abroad in which the inhabitants have no need whatsoever to speak Spanish and have no intention of ever learning anything more useful than "doss surveysas" and "La kwenta." Home for me is slap bang in the centre of a small sized city, where, no more than about twenty native English speakers also reside. This offers up allsorts of possibilities to confuse the locals with a language vaguely resembling Castellano. In my town, Elche, it's always a one shot deal, if you don't get it spot on first time the local with whom you just tried to communicate will look at you in the same way he or she might if you were unaware of a large bogey hanging from your nose.

Sometimes, but not very often, that somewhat blank or vacant expression could be forgiven simply because you've mis-pronounced a fairly innocuous phrase. Take for example a polite request for a chicken sandwich, no danger wth that one heh? but you'd be wrong, the Spanish word for chicken is "pollo" pronounced
'poy-o' Get the end of the word slightly different, say ending it with an 'a' as in "polla" and the likelihood is the waiter or waitress would probably take a step back from your table. Poy-a is the Spanish word for dick!!
Similarly, and this happened to me - just the once - it's easy to mix up "heuvos" and "huevas" again it's just a single vowel but quite an important one. Where I thought I'd asked for eggs, (way-bo's), I'd inadvertently requested scambled "way-ba's". Explaining away the young serving wench's quizzical look, the bloke I was with pointed out I may not have meant to ask for balls on toast!! Actually, the 'a' and the 'o' in every day Spanish writing and conversation are pretty crucial because they signify female and male, get them wrong and you open up a world of fun.

Spanish phrases are even more entertaining because the words are rarely in the same order as they are in English, so, straightaway you can forget about using Google Translate to reply to emails, spark up a short conversation or send a text. Until I took lessons I had not a clue how useless most of the popular internet translators actually are, these days they are simply a convenient spell checker, probably all they're any good for. For absolutely ages my girlfriend always referred to the "keys car" because it's the opposite way round in her lingo, "llaves del coche" It used to make me smile everytime I heard it so I didn't correct her for a couple of years, then it occurred to me I was mutilating far more Spanish phrases and she always used to point it out to save me embarrassing myself, especially outside the house.

If you're going to learn Spanish, a great way to start is to listen to a native recite the alphabet, but don't worry the first time, he or she isn't trying to clear their throat to spit at you. Bit by bit one or two of the sounds begin to sink in, and, provided you've chosen not to live in "Little Britain" where all you'll ever hear is English every day, you can soon make some progress. I chose a couple of favourite letters each week and then two new ones once I'd got the hang of the previous pair. For example, 'J' in English is pretty simple, "jay" but in my new world, it's "jota" yup hotter!! Problem is, elsewhere in Castellano an "H" is always silent, as in 'otel California, you follow me? Okay, now let's try a 'Z' which I used to call zed. In the land where Juan Carlos is King, an old fashioned English zed is actually "theta" pronounced like 'thin' in English. Now, say out loud the Spanish city ZARAGOZA. Did it come out like "Tharragother" It should have done. Other simple speech rules include 'b' and 'v' which are pronounced the same as each other - at the beginning of a word use it like "boy" in English - everywhere else it's like "very" but you're not supposed to let your lips touch. With this combo you might look a little bit like a window licker at the start but persevere. Finally, double 'l' is always a "ya" sound - my example below is botella (bo-tay-ya/Bottle).

Cool, now you're an expert I'll try a couple of phrases, some of which in Spanish I think are absolutely fantastic. Ready ?

Spanish - "Blanco y en botella"   English -  'White and in the Bottle'
Which loosely translated means some thing like - It's obvious stupid

Spanish - "Dar a Luz"  English - "Give the light" (to a new baby)
Loosely translated means give birth - doesn't it all make perfect sense and isn't Spanish brilliant ??

That's your lot.

They all speak funny Mum (Part II)

Having established clear blue water between the "sod it, I can't be arsed's" and the British folk who want to put some effort in, this blog continues; paying scant heed to those linguistically challenged individuals for whom Spain is just Southend-on-Sea with a bit more sunshine and cheaper lager. I'll waste no further words on those for whom Spanish isn't their first language, won't ever be a passable second, and asking for a pizza, eleven more beers and then the bill is the limit of their efforts to integrate.

For the ex-patriots in Spain who make the effort, an amazing new world of opportunity, fabulous experiences, amazement and new friends for life quickly beckon. Spanish people are warm, generous, interesting and fun, so why come to this sensational country and largely ignore all it has to offer? (Any ideas? nope, I gave up too). The thing is Spanish folk are bloody intelligent, so while you learn the basics it's virtually nailed on any locals you're acquainted with will have more than a smattering of English. This is perfect because between what you've picked up and their existing entry level English, some sort of a conversation is always perfectly possible. Trust me here because I know, I'm the proud partner of an amazing Spanish lady, who, every day since I met her has made me smile, laugh out loud, patiently answered way too many inane questions, and, from a pretty crappy personal starting point, increased my understanding of Spanish history, culture and custom. It wasn't always so!

On the evening her and I met any kind of conversation was very much a low priority, in the very few pauses between lengthy snogs, breathing took precedence over small talk and the language barrier wasn't actually very obvious. Date number two a week or so later was when the hard work began.  Like most Brits in Spain tend to find, organising drinks, food and then the bill was fairly easy, in between all that though we had to get to know each other. Three hours, one civilised peck on the cheek and a massive headache - caused by having to concentrate so hard - later, I headed home home determined to learn the lingo. The next morning, killer headache a thing of the past courtesy of industrial strength paracetamol, I began my Spanish classes. Speaking a foreign language is actually not a lot different to playing golf - with one you open your gob and words spill out, for the other you heave a club behind your back and then twat the ball. Thing is, until you're taught how to do it properly, you've got no idea how awful you are. With my tutor, so bad were my initial attempts at conversing with him, quite possibly way worse than the poorest Spanglish, he actually took me back, in childlike fashion, to learning the alphabet.  On the upside, pretty quickly I figured out that relying on Google Translate to help me whilst "chatting" to my new lady friend with MSN really was simply storing up trouble.

It would have been so easy to just give up and revert to a sedentary lifestyle on an "urb" with hundreds of likeminded Brits, but no, I persevered, developed my own unique brand of Spanish and slowly, way too slowly, began to do a little more than just get by. Four years after making her acquaintance, it's still a source of mild frustration that the girlyfriend, whose English at the outset was in no way better than my Spanish, has come on in leaps and bounds whilst my grasp of her tongue, (no stupid that was the night I met her), is only above average and not completely fluent.

Next time some common mistakes, all of which I've made at different times, and a few examples of some excellent Spanish phraseology.

They all speak funny Mum (Part I)

Moving to a foreigh country, any foreign country, is almost always a pretty fraught affair, particularly if it's been quite a few years since one could safely be classified a spring chicken. That'll be me then, and, apart from my second six months in Spain during which period it felt like I'd lost everything in a fire, (don't ask), I think I've done alright. Most things you can get sorted straightaway, such as; a car, somewhere to live and a job - which, by rights you really ought to have figured out before arriving. With the confidence borne of a cracking start, you start to tick more things off the list, for example, the taxation system, medical care, and, most crucially of all, a local pub!! I've never really bothered sussing out a dentist because I've always been shit scared of them, and, just like a dog on it's way to the vets, I lock my knees round the corner because I know where I'm going. 

One thing that can only ever be described as an ongoing process, unless you're a linguistic genius who passed the maths 'A' level with a distinction aged eight, is the language. This appears to trouble a healthy percentage of British people in Spain, many if not most of whom seek safety in numbers in giant sized housing estates called "urbanizaciones" where, every local business is compelled to speak basic English for fear of having no customers. This rule of thumb also applies to the local hostelries too, where, if you don't have Sky TV and dish up roast dinners, most Sunday's end up pretty lonely and unprofitable affairs. 

There is however, an intrepid group of non natives who, by dint of hard work, living amongst the locals and patience, experience the real Spain and are much richer for trying. This select group, to a man or woman, tends to forego Eastenders, Emmerdale and Coronation Street in favour of learning the hard way by watching the Spanish television news, (just like I did and still do), and various local outputs, much of which at the outset might as well be broadcast in Urdu. (With the utmost respect to the world's Urdu speakers). Bit by bit the penny drops, and, for the minority it's an investment in time and effort that pays off in spades. Elsewhere, the inexorable progress of brain damage or dementia caused by overexposure to British soap operas continues apace and the unsuspecting devotees get left even further behind.

By this point, born and bred Spaniards figure it out and respect immensely those Brits that mangle badly a beautiful but sometimes complicated language because they try. Bit by bit their "Spanglish" becomes discernible as something vaguely resembling Castellano. The others are treated with contempt and spend half their lives moaning about the staff as the white skin surrounding their tattoos gets redder and
redder whilst they engross themselves in The Daily Mirror. Everywhere else, British people that choose a proper daily newspaper come on in leaps and bounds and make friends everywhere they spend their money and practice their language skills.

Having set the scene and established two clearly distinct camps; those that can't be arsed versus the rest who respect their adopted country and do their best to integrate, this blog entry will be continued, as, in my round about way I get to the whole point of the thing.

To be continued..........................