An Update From Spain
It's been just over a month since I returned to España and I haven't been sacked yet! I have officially broken my four month curse and have managed to hold down a grown-up job for five, whole, months. A helluva win! To make my new record even more of an achievement, I seem to be so far from being sacked that I've been given more hours. It seems that I have become an employable, well-educated adult...
My Spanish is still abysmal; my cooking, diabolical - anything beyond the realms of nachos or pasta baffles me - and I still cannot for the life of me figure out what size jeans I wear in Europe. On the bright side, I have figured out what to say to order a decent kebab - arguably the most positive thing to come out of this whole experience and a small win that outweighs my many shortcomings as a 'Spaniard.'
Nothing quite makes you feel equally as proud and useless as the impressed look on a friend's face once you manage to order your own drink in a foreign language without umm-ing and ahh-ing like a vacuum cleaner that has just sucked up something slightly too big, even though you've been drinking the same thing since you arrived in the country. The impressed little smile and the nod of approval that makes you think you've achieved something quite marvellous when, really, all you've done is manage to string together (at most) six words and give an overly enthusiastic "Sí" when the barman asks a question. All because it's easier than asking them to repeat themselves and try to figure out what they actually said.
Once you've received this look - especially on a night out - you find yourself getting slightly more cocky than usual. Incredibly dangerous in my case, as I then believe I am damn near fluent in my new language.
"Another round? Don't you move - your walking Google Translate is on the case."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course! Didn't you get the memo? I'm practically a citizen now!"
No. You're not. Don't be silly.
Despite my new linguistic ability being more than useful in the pub, it's not done me any favours in the kitchen... aside from making it easier to buy a kebab. I've had two shocking attempts at making soup - not exactly a difficult dish - and ended up scraping the black from the bottom of two different saucepans and cursing myself for even thinking about attempting something different. Unless I have the watchful eye of the flat chef peering over my shoulder the whole time, it's brave of me to even set foot in the kitchen.
Woah. That was nearly a compliment.
Oh well, maybe being around the Spanish is turning me friendly... God forbid.
Blimey.
Since my, somewhat triumphant, return I have realised that there are a few things that I still haven't quite gotten the hang of yet. My Spanish is still abysmal; my cooking, diabolical - anything beyond the realms of nachos or pasta baffles me - and I still cannot for the life of me figure out what size jeans I wear in Europe. On the bright side, I have figured out what to say to order a decent kebab - arguably the most positive thing to come out of this whole experience and a small win that outweighs my many shortcomings as a 'Spaniard.'
Nothing quite makes you feel equally as proud and useless as the impressed look on a friend's face once you manage to order your own drink in a foreign language without umm-ing and ahh-ing like a vacuum cleaner that has just sucked up something slightly too big, even though you've been drinking the same thing since you arrived in the country. The impressed little smile and the nod of approval that makes you think you've achieved something quite marvellous when, really, all you've done is manage to string together (at most) six words and give an overly enthusiastic "Sí" when the barman asks a question. All because it's easier than asking them to repeat themselves and try to figure out what they actually said.
Once you've received this look - especially on a night out - you find yourself getting slightly more cocky than usual. Incredibly dangerous in my case, as I then believe I am damn near fluent in my new language.
"Another round? Don't you move - your walking Google Translate is on the case."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course! Didn't you get the memo? I'm practically a citizen now!"
No. You're not. Don't be silly.
Despite my new linguistic ability being more than useful in the pub, it's not done me any favours in the kitchen... aside from making it easier to buy a kebab. I've had two shocking attempts at making soup - not exactly a difficult dish - and ended up scraping the black from the bottom of two different saucepans and cursing myself for even thinking about attempting something different. Unless I have the watchful eye of the flat chef peering over my shoulder the whole time, it's brave of me to even set foot in the kitchen.
Without any shadow of a doubt, my least favourite place in Spain is standing at the hob in my kitchen flat shouting obscenities as another drop of fat flies onto my chest because I only ever seem to wear vests. The only time I enjoy being in the kitchen is when I'm sitting on the little table next to the oven watching Tom's cookies slowly rise in the oven.
That is a far better use of my time than actually learning how to cook something.
As far as I'm concerned, it's a hate crime against a country's culture to be good at cooking because it leaves you with no excuse to go out and needlessly spend your money on local cuisine. And that is. A. Must.
However, one thing I do have a love/hate relationship with is shopping for is clothes. It should not be so difficult to find a pair of jeans that at least makes it past your knee. It seems it'll be a miracle to discover a pair that actually make it up to my hips! It's easier just buy dresses.
Another necessary item of clothing I am having trouble buying is a bloody bra. Good, God in Heaven, I never thought having boobs would be such a colossal pain in the arse. I found myself inside the hottest changing room on the planet, found out that I now need a D cup - don't know if that's because I'm on the continent now, because my boobs are just bigger, or because I'm getting a bit of a chunk. Either way, I was feeling oddly conflicted about the size of my chest when the bra I finally decided to buy changed its sizing to an annoyingly broad S, M or L. A little tip: a D cup does not equate to an L no matter what your shopping buddy thinks. Ignore her. She knows nothing... Until it comes to having to return it and you remember she's fluent in Spanish and actually very handy to have around.
That is a far better use of my time than actually learning how to cook something.
As far as I'm concerned, it's a hate crime against a country's culture to be good at cooking because it leaves you with no excuse to go out and needlessly spend your money on local cuisine. And that is. A. Must.
However, one thing I do have a love/hate relationship with is shopping for is clothes. It should not be so difficult to find a pair of jeans that at least makes it past your knee. It seems it'll be a miracle to discover a pair that actually make it up to my hips! It's easier just buy dresses.
Another necessary item of clothing I am having trouble buying is a bloody bra. Good, God in Heaven, I never thought having boobs would be such a colossal pain in the arse. I found myself inside the hottest changing room on the planet, found out that I now need a D cup - don't know if that's because I'm on the continent now, because my boobs are just bigger, or because I'm getting a bit of a chunk. Either way, I was feeling oddly conflicted about the size of my chest when the bra I finally decided to buy changed its sizing to an annoyingly broad S, M or L. A little tip: a D cup does not equate to an L no matter what your shopping buddy thinks. Ignore her. She knows nothing... Until it comes to having to return it and you remember she's fluent in Spanish and actually very handy to have around.
Woah. That was nearly a compliment.
Oh well, maybe being around the Spanish is turning me friendly... God forbid.
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