Well, it’s January 7th and Christmas will soon be over. And about time, too.
Here in Spain the festivities begin back in early December: the Inmaculada is the 8th, but it tends to link up with the national Día de la Constitución on the 6th and there begins to be a general feeling that everyone’s getting psyched up for the holidays.
I’m in the city for a couple of days and spending the morning working at the computer in our fourth floor flat. There’s no one else around and I thought I’d have a few hours of peace and quiet to get the year end accounts organised ready to take to the accountant next week. Instead, it’s only just eleven o’clock and I’ve had to buzz open the main building door three times already – and all for postmen. Well, ok, postpeople, perhaps. Continue reading “going postal”
It’s nearly Christmas, so it must be time to dust off the decorations. Not for me the tree and the tinsel, the baubles and ornaments that figured so importantly in my childhood. No, since living in Spain I have discovered the art of the Nativity Scene and each year I set out my own small belén at home.
As most people do, I started off with the central stable scene – referred to here as the pesebre (manger), nacimiento (birth) or Misterio (mystery) – but as the years go by I’ve added figures and scenes and now I feel the display really does warrant the term “belén” which is the Spanish name for Bethlehem. Continue reading “oh little town of Bethlehem”
It’s Saturday, it’s a public holiday, and I was planning a a long, lazy weekend, starting with a lie-in. Instead, we were woken around 8 a.m. by the sound of a pig being slaughtered.
Actually, I’m not sure the pig itself was making the wheezy, squealing noise: it might have been the donkey disturbed by the proceedings. But whatever it was, it woke me; particularly as the general hubbub was augmented by a couple of roosters crowing, another neighbour’s elderly rottweiler baying – presumably excited by the scent of blood – and the vociferous commentary from four generations of the family who had turned out to witness the event. Continue reading “pigging out”
My elderly mother complains that everytime there’s a power cut she has to go round the house altering all the clocks. She doesn’t understand – and nor do I – why we should have to have so many clocks on appliances that don’t need them: the cooker, the microwave, the video, the radio… Continue reading “the times they are a-changing”
Ten sounds that make it impossible to forget that you’re in Madrid:
1. The neighbour beating eggs to make a tortilla española.
2. The squeak of the washing line pulley in the patio interior. Often closely followed by:
3. The sound of a clothes peg falling into the patio interior. (The only sound associated with the clothes that are dropped is the exclamation of the housewife who’s hanging them out.) Continue reading “sounds of Madrid”
Well, it’s September and this hasn’t been updated for a whole month. I’ve obviously been affected by my years in Spain: Spaniards of all ages take their summer holidays seriously.
Most Spanish workers get twenty days vacaciones, and they usually take the whole period in July or August as four consecutive weeks at the beach or in the mountains, often with several generations of the family holidaying together. Continue reading “bridges in Spain”