In da house!

I am finally sitting down to write my blog – or at least the first part of my blog – about my time at Chateau Valcruese (click on name of Chateau to link to their website for this picturesque but small chateau at the southern end of the Loire Valley). It has taken a cloudy day in Sevilla to allow this, who wastes sunshine? But it is a distant time now, I left there over a month ago. I have all but lost first impressions (12 weeks old now!) but there are small moments and general details that I either recorded on my iPhone or have somehow lodged themselves in my being… I will share them and no doubt in time to come there will be other moments when something will re-emerge and I will regret not sharing it. A private memory obscured accidently by the passage of time, or eclipsed by newer more immediate memories.

But before I begin I think it’s important to set the scenario – I went there with Nikki to work – gratis… in exchange for accommodation and food, we would work 3.5 days a week. Simple.

I will start with my first memory – one of the strongest – but I have no intention of continuing in a chronological fashion ... it will be a random select and, I imagine, it will be in instalments.

Now to begin. We arrived at the small rural train station and hauled our luggage up and down stairs toward the entrance … there a man stood with a scrawled sign on limp cardboard “Chateau Valcreuse”… he spoke no English.

We loaded up the car… It soon emerged that English was no problem. While Nikkiii sat silent in the back he and I nabbered for a good 20 minutes as we drove in the countryside towards or new home. Random words of French and English, much gesticulation, pointing and much much laughter. I discovered that he was the jack-of-all-trades on the property, essentially the gardener but also handy-man et al. I learnt he lived there with his family. (I am giggling to myself, my writing is interrupted by the intrusion of Spanish words that rudely want to hybridise my own writing… I delete them, they have no place in France) At first I understood he had 13 children! No – he was too young, I still have no idea what that was about – he has one. But we talked about what we do, that is I am an English teacher and Nikki is a PE teacher. We talked about the size of the Chateau, the work involved (he started to scare me!), our surrounds, all sorts of stuff. I think Nikki was a little overwhelmed by the bizarrely animated, nonsensical “conversation” in the front.

But it turns out Noel – a man normally of few words - was my first French teacher (sorry to whoever taught me in year 7... but I remember nothing so it doesn’t count) … the phrase I retain most clearly is vache blanc (white cow)… this is a picture of an edible one… though I guess they all are of course this vache is – blanc y negro – am I writing in French, English or Spanish? – fuck my head is muddled!! . Sadly that conversation was probably the most I ever got to speak to Noel… we had a laugh most days but never quite so intensely or protractedly!… he was shy with his English and I am just as shy with my French.

As we approached he pointed out the castle where we would soon live – somewhat obscured here - it still seems surreal. We arrived and our bags were taken straight downstairs to our rooms… across the hall from the wine cellar. Caroline – the chateau owner introduced herself… and we were taken for a tour and to meet the others. We were there and it had all begun pretty quickly.

I will now do a tour for you – purely and simply of the chateau itself – I will orientate you before I really introduce you in the next entry to the people and the lifestyle… then in a final blog I will take you some of the many day trips we went on.

The names of the central characters first of all… well you’ve met Nikkii before, in Paris – the woman I would share a room with for 6 weeks!

And just now you’ve met Noel, he is married to the lovely and lively Laurence who is both the housekeeper and primary translator of French and English for any folk when the owners are not around. They have a daughter Roxanne who I only really started speaking to in the last couple of weeks – she has the coy shyness of many twelve year old girls… despite a budding confidence in speaking English and a shared desire to learn Spanish. Then there is Caroline the owner and manager of the Chateau, Flroence, her 2 year old daughter and Alexander her husband who is often there early in the season but was only here for one weekend during our stay. And of course our co-workers, Corey and Corina – a young married Christian Couple - unconfirmed but most likely... besides I wanted as many C-words as possible :) - from Canada. Anyhow you’ll meet all of them properly next time!

For now, the Chateau, inside and out. The Chateau has four levels. As I said, when we arrived we were taken straight to our room… in the underground. At once, it was clear they had a penchant for antiques and flair for decoration… even in the hall.
At one end of the hall was a door that opened out to the bbq/pool area at the other the worker’s entrance – a twirling old flight of stairs that lead up to the dining room.

Welcome to the underground (I think if you click here you will get a mini video tour... I think!)

and here

and here

and here

PS can someone tell me if they work? And sorry the above camera work is such bad quality!

our room
featuring two singlebeds… this trip has reintroduced me to the joys of s-s-s-singlebeds, s-s-s-singlebeds (ain't no room for mysweet head!) something I hadn’t experienced since I was 14 except when on school camps et al.
a telly
storage places
and Frenchdoors that open out to pebbled area with outdoor furniture

a space that in turn provided a magic view of the river… and sunrise.

The downfall? This is often where guests took breakfast. So often when you weren’t working, you had to keep the curtains closed until the guests had finished

The Breakfast room

Directly next to ours was an oddly empty room that essentially functioned as a servery room that is set up each morning for guests to help themselves to buffet breakfast and take outside to enjoy the view. Each side of the room had an offering - this side had the bulk, but juices were against another wall, as were cereals and a fromage blanc creation that was made every moring... anyhoo, from here most mornings an ambient soundtrack played on loop and could be heard in our room... I may never be able to listen to Jack Johnson or Norah Jones again!

Corey and Carina’s room
Like ours only a double-bed and lilac-coloured walls… well, actually, as is the way here, two single-beds kept together by a double-bed sheet!

Laundry and our bathroom
At the end of the hall opposite C&C’s room was the laundry – 2 washing machines and dryers. A blessing as any traveller will tell you, to be able to do your washing as needed without the hunt and trek of laundromats! Having said that ALL machines were pretty frequently on the go – sheets and towels and tea-towels and aprons staple meals gobbled by said machines before being spat out for Laurence to wash.
Directly behind it was our very cute bathroom… that was none-the-less oddly unfinished with exposed wires to lights and electric sockets! The shower was heavenly large and decent pressure and hmm I’d like it again right now!

The guest's downstairs bathroom

Again cute, with attention to detail - no exposed wires here! This was were guests could come if they were in the garden or by the pool. Oh, the other notable difference here was the solid silver (I kid you not) dunny roll holder and matching dunny brush!

Wine Cellar

Next door to the laundry, just turn a clunky old-fashioned brass key in an old wooden door and you gain access to the wine cellar. In it boxes and boxes of assorted wines. Most quite reasonable in price and quality… then there were the dustier top-shelf bottles, crates of beer assorted – mainly Belgiun, crates of soft drink, a box of freshly harvested potats and walnuts, a smaller alcove of last years confiture and preserves. They sat in this dank and mouldy room that was just across the hall from our room. The moulds didn’t seem to need to turn the brass key but floated out and straight to me – I spent much time hayfevered and snotty!

Let me blow my nose and then I’ll take you up the twirly-whirly stairs… stairs that I thought would cost my life or at least their china… but never did.

And now for another Storey

The dining room
at the top of the stairs the opulence is immediately apparent.
a wonderous chandelier dominates the space, it is suspended over a giant table (comportably sits 14+) and reflected in the huge antique mirrors.
This room also has a great view over-looking the river.
This room was used for breakfasts when the weather was getting cooler. It was also used for the semi-regular dinners that were cooked by the 3-star Michelin chef Sidney someone-or-other! And hosted by his partner Alison. More occasionally dinners cooked by the “house-sitters” were served to guests.

But this oddly formal room was most frequently the office/internet café of the house! The table was often a change-table for Florence’s nappies! It was were we sat and played cards at times, and ate our dinner most nights. This in itself was an odd struggle with food and drink, a constant tension existed… don’t spill anything on the table – there were only two table-clothes and it was a real palaver to get them dry-cleaned. Guests were often served with strategically placed lace doilies and flower vases!

The Bar
Directly off to the side of the dining room is a bar. a little stuffy to my mind with the inlaid antique card table with a "no drinks" sign on it. Antique Chinese statues... it's a little barren. Guests generally only came in here for a night cap after a night out... but we had to be ready and I'm glad Nikkii was adept at bar work!

The Salon
A large lounge room with a beautiful open fire that we would set and keep going in the later weeks for both guests and ourselves. We would light candles and pipe in the music... oh so ambient, even if a little beige for my taste it was certainly a tranquil room. It also had a lovely coffee table and lamps and on nights when guests weren't using it the four of us would routinely sit in here and play cards. During the day one "couple" was required to hang around and be available to the needs of guests, to greet new arrivals and answer calls (actually one of the scariest things given they may only speak French!), we often sat in here and watched dvds on laptops or facebooked away. In the first 3 weeks there was little time for this... in the last 3 weeks there was plenty of time for this!

The billiard room
Littered with gorgeous antiques this room was underutilised I think. While a huge billiard table dominated the space, very few people knew how to play it... they should have had a back-up set of pool balls!

The Entrance

We have nearly completed the tour of this floor. The entrance is what guests first see - an impressive antique, split staircase greeted them. And on the first landing was a beautiful mirror on a ledge made of woven driftwood... exquisite. To the left left was an antique glass case with the obligatory tourist info available. Hidden behind the desk was a desktop computer... another place we would hide away at the ready.

The Kitchen

If to the right of the entrance was the under-utilised billiard room, to the left was the kitchen... the throbbing, pulsing heart of the house.

Or at least my existence in it.

In this room we prepared gourmet breakfasts, swore, cooked dinners, made compote, created, baby-sat, learned many French-food words, scavenged, impressed, wrote lists, laughed, sweated, plated up, WASHED BULK DISHES, made jellies (as in rose-petal and quince), planned, panicked, made confiture, listened to the Grandfinal (very quietly) while guests ate breakfast in the dining room next-door... twice, burnt stuff, invented, cried (once - nothing to do with grandfinal :) ),felt frustrated, posed with artichokes, felt elated, gossiped, clowned and sang (or did air-guitar). It was the room guests rarely entered. Which was wise!

I'm goin up

The guestrooms
Up the grand staircase was the guest's floor, again decorated tastefully in antiques and... beige. Though there was one feature in the landing area a full-size and exquisite yet disquietingly repulsive antique stuffed peacock - the only thing in the house with magnificent colour... but I never quite knew how to feel as I passed it on the way to the rooms.

The rooms themselves, I have little to say about, and it is interesting I forgot to document visually... There were 4 of them on this floor, again tastefully decorated and each night we paid attention to detail, turning down beds, placing chilled water and a freshly cut rose, turning on lamps etc while guests were having their dinner. Of course if you were Nikkii and I, you laughed at tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum matching PJ's or took a bet on who would find a pube on the pillow first... then challenged each other to floss with it! I'm sure the people who turn down your rooms would never be so... juvenille!

I'm on the top of the world, looking down on...

The final guestroom

Had an amazing view of the whole valley, but otherwise was like the other rooms... except more exercise to get up to! Have I mentioned all the rooms were single-beds that were put together? Weird huh? Apparently not, apparently it's normal because these old buildings with narrow staircases makes it pretty hard to move a double or queen-size around.

Also on this floor was the apartment (still in process of renovation) that housed Caroline, Alexander and Florence - our landlords, bosses and hosts.

Creation...

Outside

So much is here. It is a huge expanse of land that is broken up into sections and dotted with wrought-iron furniture to sit on and appreciate the vistas. As you come up the pebbled drive, to the right is a small vineyard, plump with fruit when we were there. Originally I had been told we would be doing picking for this years wine batch but thankfully, issues with the presser and barreling meant that never happened. We did use some though in our jam making exploits. Along one side was a long row of apple trees and a plum or two also picked and preserved in bulk. There was a boule (boche to many of you) court which we remembered to use once or twice.

Had the drive not curved a car could have driven down to a lovely (though permanently icey) pool. I only braved it once - Nikkii never did. But the sun lounges were a lovely spot to be when the guests were away.

Up a little closer to the house was a huge and beautiful tree - underneath it an extensive, paved bbq area. We often ate our dinner there as the sun went down... I also sat there and wrote a blog or two (about Spain!)

In front of the house were colourful garden beds that featured an array of roses . These roses were used daily in guest rooms. They were also once used for a trail of rose-petals and a heart on the bed for a honeymoon couple (but twee if you ask me! and there were aphids ewww!). These rose petals (washed) were also used to make jams - subtle but fragrant.

Closer to the fence was a grassed area that featured furniture for their daughter... cute huh? I never saw her use it though!

Further to the left of the house was a self-contained house were Noel, Laurance and Roxanne lived. Near it was the small vegie patch full of herbs that I picked most mornings to decorate plates or flavour eggs etc

Down a pebbled path was a larger garden and orchard with peach, pear, apple, quince and walnut trees. The garden ripe with tomatoes and various berries - yum! And behind the house a rolling green hill that lead down to the river lined with trees and shrubs... ahh all of it lovely!

So that folks is it... for today. Another day the ins-and-outs of daily life and the people I shared it with.

Un peu de Paris (A little bit of Paris)

Peu is right!

Paris, so talked about, so revered and for me in these two days, so overrated.

I hadn’t wanted to leave Spain so that could have been part of it. I had had the train trip from hell so that could have been part of it. I hadn’t slept properly in days so that could have been part of it. But when I finally got to Paris, I was actually keen. Keen to have an arvo of exploring on my own before Nikkii came from Portugal. Keen to have a day touristing with Nikkii and Thomas etc Keen to discover what this revered city had to offer. But I only had 2 nights before heading to the chateau...

The details. The hotel was up in Montemarte up near Sacre Coeur – in a really seedy section.

Strangely I didn’t take photos of the neighbourhood – off my game I guess. But I arrived before check-in so I dropped my bags and went to the local internet café.

An hour or so later I checked in and settled into my half of the small space, had a long nap and decided to head out for an adventure. I had eavesdropped at check-in on a conversation indicating a market just up the street. Cool!

So, I am walking a block or so from the hotel when I become aware of a man following me. He nods and smiles – I smirk/sneer and keep walking. A block later and he’s still there… I turn down another street, he follows. Ok, now I’m starting to get creeped out and quicken my steps – I am also suddenly aware that I know NO fucking French. Not “what do you want?”, not “piss off you fucking-creepy-loser” and certainly not “help – this fucking-creepy-loser is following me!”. Merde!

I see a coat store and duck in – I pretend to look around at fake leather coats of a most un-me variety in an attempt to lose the Fucking-Creepy-Loser (FCL). I head out… he’s waiting – FUUUUCCCKKK… I walk half a block and duck into a chemist – I peer outside and the pharmicist asks (I assume) if the there is anything I want. I try to explain that a FCL is following me… sign language, gestures… I look up at the pharmacists as I gesticulate and it becomes clear that rather than understanding the urgency of what I am attempting to communicate, they are deciding whether to call the psych-emergency team for assistance. Merde!

I head back outside, he is gone. I keep going toward the market, looking over my shoulder to see if the FCL is following me. Nup… but I keep looking, the whole trip.

The market is a dud. The kinda cheap tatty shit sold at two dollar shops or the touristy sections of the Vic Market. Yeesh. But I walk around and witness coded communications between a group of men targeting tourists for pick-pocketing. Subtle fingered gestures behind the back to guys walking a few metres behind. Impressive, wrong, but impressive.

I decide to head back via the metro station which is less than 50 metres from our hotel. I line up, just wanting a metro map to use for the next coupla days. I am beset upon by a series of touts trying to sell me metro tickets cheaper than at the window or in the machine – their English, while awkward, is nonetheless impressive. A woman who has clearly led a harsh life puts a McDonalds cup in my face, intended for my loose change. I keep standing - eventually, these people move on to their next targets. There are at least 20 “dodgy” characters operating in a 5 metre radius of me. I am awed, fascinated, saddened and repulsed. Then a chaotic shouting begins and people scurry in every direction, cups get emptied and launched into gutters in split seconds, tickets get pocketed and many leap across entrance barriers towards the trains – the gendarme (coppers) have arrived. They stroll about, looking around with less than vague interest, they stroll back out… the miscellaneous dodgy hoards are back at work within 2 minutes… my queue has barely moved forward.

Eventually I get my map and head for the stairs back out.

A man smiles and starts launching himself at me, “Beautiful woman, I love you, you stunning me, beautiful, sexy woman…” I grimace, and indicate my lack of interest with relative politeness. “I love you, beautiful woman, sexy woman, sexy woman, I want sex you”… I turn and indicate my lack of interest with somewhat less politeness as I stride up the stairs… he follows – he continues. I turn around and approach him, yelling directly at him “Just FUCK-OFF”, he stands, smiles and says, “Yes, I fuck you beautiful, sexy woman. I fuck, I fuck.” Good grief! I stomp off without looking back - he didn’t follow.

When I get to the hotel I ask the woman at reception to write down how to say in French, “Fuck off and go away”, she is a little taken aback and says that it might be better to say “Laissez moi tranquille” (leave me alone)

That was my first few hours out and about in Paris!

I decide to stay in the room and await Nikkii’s arrival later that night.

Nikkii arrives, so tanned she looks like a backpacker – not an English one though, they tend to more beetroot shades. Portugal has good beaches for sunning on it would seem – damn should have put it on my itinerary! It’s late, we crash.

Day 2 – We organise to meet Thomas (the lovely 18yr-old guy from just outside of Paris that I'd shared my flat in Barcelona with) in town with his girlfriend (I’m embarrassed to have forgotten her name cos she was lovely!)

Before we do Nikkii and I stroll around – she knows Paris … at least in passing. We head to a lovely park next to the Louvre… we stroll enjoy sunshine and

colour – she predicts a pick-pocket scam just before it happens (people ask you to read their postcard in English… and rob ya), we buy post cards, we sit in the sun and people watch. Aaahhh, that’s more like it!

Then we head in to meet up – it quickly becomes clear that Thomas does not really know Paris in detail either. Like an eighteen year old from Geelong showing people around Melbourne – his girlfriend had come into town more often. They were both generous and kind. At first the suggested a burger joint for lunch, thinking that would appeal to us? But then they took us to the old Jewish quarter where we sat for lunch of awesome falafels! This was more like it…

Then we just strolled the streets and chatted. They answered my many questions about signs and monuments and stuff. We walked along the Seine, Notre Dame and the Latin Quarters – lovely day in the sun laughing and talking, sight-seeing and just looking. I was oddly underwhelmed in a way because everything seemed to familiar - images from TV I guess. I felt incredibly touristy (which I inevitably am, everywhere) To emphasise it I took a photo of Nikkii taking a photo. There must be uncountable repetitions of the same images, places, perspectives. As always, I (as I'm sure many people do) wanted to get underneath the gloss to the culture ... but not the variety that had dogged me on day one! Not possible in 2 days I guess.

We found Duvver's street too / a collision of her names - Rue Christiani!

While we walked Nikkiii took photos of random space invader artwork while I concentrated on graffitti this one says approx hello I am a painter but I do not have money, I do poor drawings a complete mess thank you - approx

I became aware at this point that Paris was a city of cats. Not only literally – they are frequently depicted in art and can be seen strolling streets or hiding in drains – but also analogously … if the Spanish are dog people (transparent, boisterous, fun-loving), Parisians are cat people (mysterious, aloof, elegant). Hmmmm

Eventually it was time for the others to head home…

Nikkii and I decided to head to Sacre Cour and walk home from there - a little of an uphill hike but what a view!

More sun, more people watching, talented buskers (this one juggles while keeping a goldfish in a bottle balanced on hi head!), art and cobble streets of wonder.

It is at this point that I first noticed a phenomena I had vaguely observed in Spain but was now in my face everywhere I went... NUTELLA - huge fuck off jars of it, it has followed me since as well. Why do Europeans love Nutella so much… it is everywhere, it lacks class!

The wind picks up and it is cold again … or, more accurately, we have dressed optimistically… it is time to walk home… via a bread shop (hot, crusty pane), a fruit shop (mmm berries!) etc… we eye off other pastry shops but decide to wait until morning. We get in, we eat, we crash.

The next moring is filled with bureaucratic must-dos, get phone credit, email, post snail mail – achieved… time to head to the station and our trip to Chateau Valcruese, La Roche Posay where we will live for the next six weeks. Gulp – but that’s the next blog!

bye-bye Barcelona!

Ok it is sunny again here at the chateau, now a rare thing as autumn sets in with cloud and mist and wind with mere glimpses of sun. Today however a gentle blue sky and sun on my face inspires memories and I am given a moment to recall. But this is a quickie, a last fleeting flit through Barcelona – meeting up with good people and getting ready to head to Paris. Just one day… and my notes are gone so… relying on my terribly holey memory!

Arrived and committed a heinous crime… headed straight to McDonalds. Not cos I wanted a burger or fries but because I needed internet – how else could a scraggly bunch of travellers catch up?

It’s funny really; I had always given Emre a hard time for eating Maccas and frozen food when in Spain… I mean really? What a fucken hypocrite I ordered a third of my default Maccas order (you know the order you ALWAYS had when you were a kid… mine used to be a Big Mac, chocolate thickshake and fries – now even writing it makes me wanna barf) – So fries and warm water it was, as I got online and confirmed a meeting spot with Hanna and Jan… 9with help from mobile phones too) they in turn told others. I first headed to Jan’s flat for a catch up and a mini cd download sess and a pit-stop.

We headed to said park to meet others near Barcelona’s Arc de Triumph (a prelude for all things French?)

I met the guy who had moved in after me as well and a few others. (Holy shit two auburn coloured squirrels skittered past me at the chateau - soooo cute!). We wandered around the park enjoying sunlight (some nursing hangovers!) sitting, watching others frolic.

We laughed at the OTT gold-gilt water features, but let’s face it, it's these garish touches that mark a place as special, as a space to laugh in!

This boy was so intent on the pond that he stayed in this possie for well over 15 minutes… Holiday lifestyles eh?

Eventually we kept wandering through the park where the others (not me!) had a crack – and failed – at this popular “sport”/activity. Essentially elastic is strung up between trees and the aim is to balance across – eventually doing fancy stuff. The people who had it set up were great and they kindly indulged a pack of tourists (us) who wanted a go too.

Time for a drink at an outside bar. Very touristy but let’s face it we were marking time, til I had to gather my things and head for a train - all of us reminscing our time in Barcelona, some of us starting to turn our minds to our next stop. The company was pleasant but the food I ordered was not - some fish salad thing. I barely touched it. Unusual given I knew I had a 14hr overnight train trip coming up.

Anywhoo I said good-bye to the others, jealously, and headed to Jan’s apartment to pick up my luggage and chuff-chuff off.

Now I must say Jan has proven himself a bit of a hero - twice… first with the Lemsip (a few entries ago) and secondly by storing my stuff for 2 weeks while I flitted around Spain. No biggie you say? Well you try to haul my erm rather heavy luggage up and down 3 flights of these rickety stairs!

He also kindly waited as I (in full panicked traveller mode – where’s my ticket, where’s my passport, where’s some water, where’s my ticket, where’s my passport… you get it, right?) paced and fanned myself. The train arrives – goodbye Jan, goodbye Spain – stampede. OH FUCK.

TRAIN_TRIP FROM HELL!

Suitcase handle breaks as I lug my case onto the train – drag it (picture huge fuck-off case and me with small backpack sidling my way through =narrow passages) to compartment… are you FUCKING kidding me – no luggage storage and a full compartment. The bed I’d booked specifically at the bottom has magicked itself to be a top bunk.

By now I’m flustered and crying – I had booked and paid for a first class sleeper THIS squishy closet with 3 other women was NOT what I was anticipating. I spoke to the train attendant about the luggage ticker I'd been given for luggage storage - she laughed, no such thing! And the bunk thing? a shrug of the shoulders - last day of the holidays - no spare bunks, tough luck. I was going to deck the bitch but I was so flustered and upset I ddn't have the energy. Turns out there are 3 levels of first class – this was the lowest.

The women in my cabin (kindly – if grumpily) help me get luggage in and try to pretend it didn’t worry them. Another even MORE kindly swapped beds – no-one spoke more than two words of English… or Spanish – they were French.

At 9:45 the train inspector came in and lowered all the beds, overhead lights out – bed time… my light didn’t work I was getting leg cramp, had my period, the little bit I had eaten at the bar was not agreeing with me and our cabin door didn’t snib properly and it kept slamming on the edge of my bed near my head randomly through the night. NOT HAPPY! Certainly not the romanticised idealised indulgent European train ride I had fantasized about... or paid for. It was one fucking long, sleep deprived train trip from hell … but it did eventually land me in Paris.

... but that’s next entry folks!

Magnificent Madrid?... well maybe... in moments

(NB this next blog is made a wee bit funnier if you’ve read the previous blog about Seville – http://lshukroon.blogspot.com/2010/09/sevillian-serendipity.html – not compulsory but perhaps spend a minute or two reading/rereading that one first… bossy ain’t I?)

Ok I am sitting on a bench in the vegetable patch at the chateau (this blog started being written there – then by the pool – then in the bbq area, the breakfast area etc… sorry it’s so long!... Again!) and even though I left there about a month ago, I am now psychologically ready to leave Seville and head to Madrid. As always by train, 1^st class. Who knew it, this time that meant free brekky … but I’d just eaten when they came around so I just pocketed the mini-olive oil and tomato paste – too cute!

Arrived and was confronted at the station with a statue of a creepy decapitated babies head (actually there are 2 one at either end of the station)

Cool chat with the cab driver from station to hotel … the cabbies in Spain rather than being dour, grumpy old dudes, or over-tired disaffected and over-worked migrants, as we’re used to in Melbourne, seem to be young, spritely uni-students of both genders… and happy to chat!

Was dropped off at my hotel in a erm… well, an interesting neighbourhood … at least 1 hooker per square metre! Not your upper class variety either… age range 25-70ish… legs akimbo and breast similarly askew and exposed. Some dodgy trannie hookers … dodgy as in they looked like they’d walked of the set of the end of season Footy Show … effort please ladies ;)

That was the part I LIKED about the neighbourhood … they all seemed friendly (and not in a hire-me kinda way) but the area had a urinally back of the throat stench… and I kept thinking I was gonna turn a corner and find people getting head-jobs in alleys... Guess it could be worse.

I was deep in the heart of sex-industry land and gay-men’s sauna land. Not the poof and dyke scene of my world (arts-wanker/social-communitarians) but the primp-and-pose gym-and-steam-room reality that ain’t my scene.

There were some interesting posters and one awesome large-scale piece of graffiti art…

Anyhoo

The hotel was… ok. It was a little reeky of antiseptic and rank air-freshener spray. But it was clean and comfortable and I was really close to the centre of Madrid.

Madrid. Initial impressions not great. The air is smoggy and has a chemical taste… something I also discovered about Melbourne years ago when I was coming home in a cab from Tullamarine after a trip to Darwin. In fact that’s a great comparison for me… while Madrid was hot and sunny (like Melbourne can be) it didn’t have that purity and crisp lightness of the sun that Seville (and Darwin in the dry) have.

When I headed for Plaza de Sol and other central bits I was non-plussed. Everything was over-priced and seedy – mass-produced and garish… hmmm. A big smelly city.

There were spruikers everywhere and sad giant cartoon figures in sagging and stained costumes making balloon animals. I saw Bart Simpson, Minnie Mouse, some Japanese Pickachu-ish characters and a beer-bellied middle-aged man in an super-stretched, laddered and sweat-stained Spiderman outfit – classy.

I wandered back to the hotel, headed straight for my computer and decided to do a few strategic searches to work out where my “peeps” could be found. I kinda took a stab at what were the artsy, alternative areas… then I headed for the central tourist information centre.

I tried to communicate my desire to see local theatre/music/art to the tourist info woman… she kept pointing me to mega galleries and the equivalent of the Arts Centre… not quite what I was after. I tried again and dropped the name of a coupla the barrios that I’d discovered in my Googling… she smiled and nodded, mentioned the fine array of multi-cultural cuisines on offer there and added a few more interesting tips then as I was walking off I scored a wink (think the barrios were the dyke neighbourhoods J) …

Headed home for a nap and bought some fine produce at a supermarket closer to home… the usual pressed meats and vegies and this fine new taste sensation… fish worms in garlic (ok, that might not be the official name!) … they look like Gach/guk (spl?) ala Klingons on Star Trek. (a shout out to Duvvers, Hil and anyone who knew me in my 20's – a bit of a flashback, eh?) Yum!

That was day one of 3 in Madrid.

Day 2 didn’t start out so auspiciously either… desperate need for clean clothes lead me down back streets to a rare-as-hens-teeth laundromat (they tend to laundry services rather than do-it-yourself throughout Spain) – fucken expensive… same price as the hostel- delivered laundry service in Seville (that I regretfully decided not to use) except I had to sit in a fucken laundromat for a coupla hours… though I did talk to an American tourist… yawn… and saw an AMAZING tattoo of a peacock on a woman’s back/shoulder but my iPhone camera had a hissy fit so I don’t have a pic. I headed back to the hotel having ticked off an item from the to do list…

But on the way I was on the verge of crying and gagging when I walked past a derelict putrid building and a woman staggered out drug fucked and dishevelled… and distressed. I have no real idea why but every guess I hazarded was ugly.

I headed home had a nap and decided to start again… I was getting a little depressed that I’d left the paradise of Seville for this!

I was determined to see some theatre… a friend of mine had mentioned before I left Seville that Madrid is where the Spanish theatre scene is based (Hola Stebo!)… So I hopped back online – I love the internet! Of course my Spanish was better than it is now (*chokes back tears*) but I still had to rely heavily on Google Translate! Found a theatre – la escalera de Jacob (Jacob’s Ladder) – that had several shows on as well as some live music acts and looked interesting… Here are some of the Google translations:

“Representation of Love fuck but does not kill in the room of Jacob 's Ladder .” (Pardon?)

“With terrace, inside bar and a basement with performances of various kinds. Nice people, good rod , very good to start the night.” (I’ve always thought that about good rod… a great way to start the night!)

“One of the alternative theaters most emblematic of the city. Not only plays, but any cultural expression has no place in this space: theater, cinema, concert, workshops ... Every month here cultural program offers a carefully focused mainly in music and theater and always out of the busiest commercial channels and fashions” (A few issues with grammar here but the gist sounds great… I think)

“Handful of peanuts with beer, with its shell and all. For that reason alone it is worth be dropped from time to time ... Content ourselves with how little sometimes!” (actually I expect a little more from my live performance venues than peanuts... even if that's the funding they're given)

“In the room, from erotic stories to children's work, not too comfortable, when the work worth it probably does not matter” (ok, I’m a little scared now…)

ABOUT A BAND…
“Since its mothership, Chico Asteroid send us this telegram star forward your visit to our scenario: A "from the Galaxy, in the street Jaleo, Pop Synchro © tico, LS-swing. Rock shrimp, radical hedonist, near bars and zarajos chafardina. Galactic hitchhiker and driver damaged in a yellow Fiat Skull-Limoncello. Asteroid Chico. Welcome to the show. Currently recording their first album "GalaxiaÂ" with the Band of the Local. In no meu Diego Aina room ... weird. Any day we'll play inside your house, in the shower, under your bed. Arrive by enchufes. " (um… Anyone got some drugs I think I’ll need em to get through this!)

Righto then, I wasn’t sure what I was in for but decided to stroll through town and catch the Metro to Levaipes eat out and catch a show – am I brave or what?!

I was far more chipper as I walked through Madrid, did that in-your-head-coin-toss about directions and happened to come across a great street performer.

He was doing magic/stunts but was excessively theatrical and downright scary. The audience was utterly enthralled – from when he found objects in other peoples shoes to when he got a man in the audience to drill up his nose (eww). He was fucken funny in any language.

I then meandered my way to the Metro and Leviapes. Arrived and realized I wasn’t sure which direction the theatre (or restaurants) were in. Started schlepping and the grimey (up-fucking-hill) streets gave way to this...

Looked great for what I take to be public housing. Chatted to some of the rasta-esque blokes sitting in front of it and they said I was heading in the right direction for the theatre. Yay internal radar!

There were many restausants but the were all either kebab/Alaysa-type places or Indian… I hadn’t been out of Coburg long enough to be craving either. Dang.

Anyways kept headin for the theatre. Found it. The front was a paved court-yard with many tables for drinking and chatting and inside was a funky little bar with a bunch of artsy-hip-spunky bar staff… thank-fuck! We chatted in Spanglish and they explained that I was meant to have booked my tickets online – yeeks. They told me about the shows on that night, both comedies. One was sold out… the other, called Las Mujeres De Mi Vida (The Women in My Life – a one-man comedy act… hmmm?) they’d squeeze me in (bless em). We chatted some more … they were curious how I was gonna understand the comedy given, erm, my language, erm,… limitations. I considered it a learning opportunity – better than school, TV or the internet! I then asked where was good for dinner that wasn’t Turkish or Indian. The best they could come up with was a Moroccan joint. They said I had to be back at the venue by 9:30 to get the ticket for a 10:30 show.

I found the Moroccan place – aint it cute?

I ordered a Harira Soup and a carrot salad… when the soup arrived I realized I had ordered too much so asked for the salad to take away. All delish – mum the carrot salad was similar to the selec carrot salad you make… but not the same J. They had these fascinating desserts on the counter but I restrained myself (ie too full already!) and found out that these were special dishes for Ramadan. Anyway what I’d eaten was all a bit garlicky so I bought some chewy at a small convenience shop – the kid there took the opportunity to practice their English – too cute!

Made way back to the teatre “un mojito gracias” (I am developing quite a penchant for them!). Then soaked in the sights of people out for the night of theatre. Some of my iPod notes: “found the part of Madrid I like – phew, demonstratively loving couples (we is sooooo uptight in Oz), fat chicks wear tight clothes (oh yeah!), tits are proudly on display, it is noted that while el barrio es Afrikano y Indian no en de teatre… I still pursue the middle-classes!”

A stampede when one show was called – not mine – cool, another free-poured mojito by the increasingly spunky-looking if showy bartender. Nothing to do with the effect of the mojito I’m sure! Then our stampede was on – I think I mentioned in a previous blog that I’m scary when stampeding – front row. The theatre itself was a modern La Mama – intimate and simple – bench seats with cushion and people sitting on the stairs.

The show was fucken funny. I can highly recommend going to see comedy as a language learner – always full of exaggerated facial expression and gestures it becomes (largely) understandable… even if subtle nuance is lost. This actor was an out-n-proud gay man talking about his observations of his women friends and the lengths they go to when trying to attract men… made funnier cos they were often trying to pick up men he knew were gay. The audience were pissing themselves (as was I… where was that dunny?) as he created “types” (not just women but men too) worked his guts out, had some whole-audience participation and some quick repartee in response to audience reaction. All good.

When the show was over I was happy I’d discovered something about Madrid I truly enjoyed! Even better as I walked out way after midnight (when the Metros have finished) a cab drove by… mine! If you’re in Madrid perhaps a visit to http://www.laescaleradejacob.es/ is in order?

Anyways back to the cab trip… Guess what, we chatted – largely in Spanish-ish he had very little English. We talked about the theatre and me travels to date… he asked me if I was traveling alone. There is nothing like traveling alone to make you cagey and (overly?) cautious. I lied a bit about previous cities and then I was comedically exaggerative about having no friends in Madrid…but that I would be meeting up with friends in Barcelona and Athens (true). He laughed and said I had a friend in Madrid now (nyaw?) and by the way “mi llamo es Freddy, como en Freddy Kruger o Mercury” (My name is Freddy, as in Freddy Kruger or Mercury) !!!! Are you fucking kidding me? Someone should tell these Spanish/Chilean men that that line ain’t cut it with us Aussie chicks. Weird!

DAY 3

Was happy with the previous nights escapades and in a good mood for some exploration… especially as I’d woken to a toasty 35+ degree day. Decided to take a stroll and find a park to read a book in the sun – besides I had to find a calamares bocadillo to eat cos I’d promised a friend (hey Francie!) I would… first I wanted to stop at the museo o contemporania via a little spot I’d noticed on a map… instead I weaved my way around and discovered yet another plaza.

I am in awe of this aspect of Spanish life. People live in small apartments in large cities without gardens but it is totally livable because they spend more time in communal areas. The plazas have many seats to sit and chat on … or to contemplate the world around you… they often have kids play areas and even adult exercise bits… no need for gym membership here! This one was setting up for a weekend flea-market and here is an image of a middle-age woman walking with her elderly mother (talked about in previous blogs).

This is something that should be a bigger part of urban planning in Oz… and a part of our culture shift.

Anyhoo wandered towards the contemporary art museo.. the shops became more interesting and quirky and the vibe too…. It is in this neighbourhood that a street has been earmarked for (or by?) my friend Cressida Limon … great to see you lay claim to one of the streets in one of my preferred sections of Madrid, Cressida! (Mucho mucho amor para tu y Jan, Cressida)…

Kept walkin and found a nice little bar that sold pequeno bocadillos calamares and these awesome garlicky blood sausage bocadillos… then a fruit shop and then cross a major fucking highway where the traffic has no fucking idea which is actually the right side of the road and… ahhh at last a park in the sun. Immediately Madrid felt that little bit less polluted (oi vay – not looking forward to Athens on that account!).

I strolled and smiled and sat and listened and watched and read and absorbed… here is my iPhone note from that morning: How long has it been since I lay on lush green grass in dappled sunlight reading a book. (image to left is the view I had lying in soft green grass looking up) Droughts and mindless work pressure have robbed us all. Add to the magic the terrific singing and strumming of a local busker, the sound of fountains and distant laughter, a gentle breeze and a warm calamare bocadillo - *checks pulse* - I am alive, right?

I

wasn’t the only one enjoying the sun. Young, old, coupla gay dads (assumption) and their baby, joggers, dog walkers (iPhone note: In Spain there’s a lot of dogs with huge fucking balls – attached to them not to chase!) and other tourists lapped it all up – along with the views.

A coupla hour later and it was time to meander home – one other cute noticing… near where I was staying was this odd fountainy thing that would turn on and off randomly. It was kinda like one of those carnival games where things pop up and you have to try to hit them with a hammer – get me? Anyway I watched as a young baby delighted in the mystery of where water would erupt from next. Delightful!

Went home – it was siesta time right? I needed to reset before heading off to the markets the woman at the tourism office had told me about. Snooze!

Time to head out the many many Metro stops for my market adventure… great opportunity to pick up some stuff for the picnic I’d be going on the next day in Barcelona… I was catching a train in to Barcelona to catch up with friends and pick up my luggage from Jan (!) before heading by train to Paris!

As the numbers on the train thinned out and everything started looking exceedingly suburban, I started to get a little concerned – who would go to this much effort to shop? Me, it seems! I got off at the station… no signs for the merkat… joder… tuned in my internal radar… left. Correct call, kinda. I was clearly in a “housing Commission” estatey thing… and dead in front of me was “the merkat” Holy fuck – she’d gotten that I wanted a large-scale place to buy fruit and vegies like the locals would use (rather than the fruit stall around the corner from the tourist bureau she’d first pointed me to) BUT she’d sent me to a massive supermarket – actually it was a large-scale Bunnings-esque supermarket… with K-mart like districts (are you getting the scale?) of bric-a-brac and hardware and furniture and … it was fucking scary! I was however impressed by 6 cheese aisles, 4 cold meat aisles and a mega-deli. Holy shit. It depressed me actually, though I did buy some more fish-worms in garlic oil and other bits for the picnic.

Then headed home, then had a great pub meal at 10pm – essentially steak and chips with a glass of red but that’s not doing the chef justice at all!

Up early next morning… to the train and back to Barcelona…

Madrid – magic moments but if your time is tight and you have to choose, skip it J