What's in a Name? Soul Searching in Spain

This past year has been personally significant and challenging in such an overwhelming number of ways, it is hardly surprising that one small fact got a bit overlooked in the script.  In the back of my mind, I knew it had happened, but I have hardly had the time or mental space to think about it.   This, therefore, is one of the many reasons why I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to roam in Spain this summer.

I have just returned from a trip, which only took three weeks, but has probably given me at least three years' worth of things to reflect on.  On the way, I caught up with some old friends I think about nearly every day during my life in England.  I also made some fantastic new ones (I hope) and, of course, encountered a number of people who were merely passing through, but nevertheless made some kind of impression on me.  The last of these was an Australian ex-criminal I met in a hostel in Madrid (I didn't say they were all salubrious company).  Having spent five nights effectively running away from my 'hostel family' in Cadiz, I felt duty-bound to take this mildly dejected figure who had just lost his surfboard on a midnight walking tour of the city.  My slightly grudging kindness was repaid the following night, when I caught up with him after a couple of Spanish-measure gin and tonics, and felt like talking.  The Spanish-measure gin and tonics led, predictably, to one of those conversations that you wake up from the next day, thinking 'oh god, what was all that about?'  Nevertheless, after, in a very British way, declining his various offers to 'digitally fuck up' the men in my life ('No, no...that's really not necessary...but thank you'), talk turned to family and, in particular, grandfathers.  During the course of the conversation, it emerged we both had grandfathers who died when we were very young.  I also talked about the grandfather I never knew at all.  His name was Charles (Charlie to his friends and family) Barnes.  He was my father's father and, now that my own father is gone, I have very little, apart from some brief recollections from things my father told me and a few collected writings, to go on.  However, Charlie has been important to me for some time, not least because I think (or hope at least) that a little bit of his spirit lives on in me.

This year I reached the age of 43, which means I have, unfairly it seems, outlived him.  Charlie had hypertension most of his life and died at the age of 42.  He passed this on to his son who, thanks to modern medicine, lived a full and relatively happy 83 years.  In fact, if it wasn't for modern medicine, I might never have been born.  Looking back, I think the fact that I was approaching 42 has been driving me for a while now.  It is this realisation that made me pick up my father's 'memoirs' today and start scouring them for references.  To be honest, I was disappointed.  My father always talked about Charlie with such fondness that I was expecting a bit more.  Although, in a way, what is there is quite revealing.  He starts by comparing the two branches of his family, maternal and paternal.  The maternal side, it seems, were aspirational and liked to think of themselves as, what we might call today, upwardly-mobile.  The Barnes family, however, were, in my father's words, 'almost entirely respectable working class and all the jollier for it'.  Going on my own recollections of my father, I would say he benefitted from both influences and, if anything, was a little more 'Mead' (his mother's side) than Barnes.  As a young adult, however, I was inspired by his descriptions of the Barnes family so much that I used to keep a photograph of the long-deceased Charlie, in his 'later' years, above my fireplace.

One of the best things about Charlie is, he loved a good party.  This is something I have definitely inherited, as people on my latest Pueblo Ingles programme can probably testify.  Unlike me, however, he was also an accomplished musician.  He could play the trumpet very well by all accounts, whilst his two brothers played the banjo and drums respectively.  Christmas nights in the Barnes household were a good-old Eastend riot according to my father, with a whole improvised jazz band going, including his mother on the piano and Charlie's mother on lead vocals.  At this point, there isn't really much more to say about Charlie, apart from the fact that worked for the Post Office and did a good line in frugality, preferring to use cut up telephone directories he got from work rather than toilet paper.  Whereas the partying is a natural inheritance, I could probably learn a thing or two from him here (although my father was no different in this respect, and that had little impact, so perhaps not).

Apart from liking a good party, however, the thing that inspired me most about Charlie was his smile.  I have two photos of him, one as a newly-enlisted teenager, where he is undeniably handsome, and one where he has obviously been living a good life.  I like the first, mainly because he has beautiful eyes (when you look closely, you can see they are full of the honesty and vitality of youth) but the second was always my favourite because of his smile and obvious evidence of having lived life to the full.   In difficult times, particularly in my mid-twenties, I kept that photo as a reminder, not only to enjoy and make the most of life (however short) but also because I knew that, had he known me, he would have loved me.  That doesn't mean my family didn't love me, but I always found myself aspiring to Charlie's apparent warmth and even bravery, and I think this has served me well so far.  I am also inspired by his kindness.  Tellingly, my father's last 'memoir' entry concerns Charlie.  He talks about a treasured, glass post horn that hung above the fireplace in his family home (I'm not entirely sure what a 'post horn' is but evidently it has something to do with hunting).  As a child, my father had broken the horn and, in an act both devious and ingenious, managed to hide the break using a pencil and a piece of tassle.  Years later, during one family party, Charlie decided to take the horn down and play it.  Of course it didn't work, but he passed the episode off with the minimum of fuss and a lot of forgiveness.

When I realised I was approaching the age of Charlie's death, I think panic started to set in.  Now I am effectively living the part of life he never had a chance to experience, I feel that I need to do it well.  Right now, I am not sure exactly what that means but I am fairly sure that I need to start looking at the people around me in Spain.  Over the past year I have been struck by the sweetness of Spanish culture.  That's not to say all Spanish people are sweet (far from it, in fact I love the fact that they can be the opposite of sweet sometimes) but I really respect their sense of community and obligation to others.   And some are just genuinely sweet and lovely.  It's not always easy for British people to understand but I think I am learning.  I really hope that, in the course of time, I develop some close friendships within the Spanish community, and understand more about what makes people who they are.   One reason I still do the Pueblo Ingles programme is because it is an opportunity to meet people and talk to them in a much more meaningful way than you would do normally.  At times, the one-to-ones are almost like having a drunken conversation but sober (although it is quite possible to still be drunk from the night before).   Another important thing about the Pueblo Ingles programme is the belief that everyone can 'bring something to the table', whether that be different cultures, beliefs, experiences or just simply themselves.    This year, we were given a set of group discussion topics, one of which was around belief in the afterlife.  I don't personally believe in an afterlife but one of our group (an Italian, actually, but that's another story), talked about his belief that his grandfather watches over him.  Maybe, in a way I believe that too, simply because of my inheritance.  Maybe the piece of me that is like Charlie is what I currently bring to the table.

In his memoirs, my dad starts off by talking about how much he used to hate his middle name of Sidney and how he used to toy with the idea of changing to it to something more glamorous, like Sinclair or St John.  This made me laugh, not only because of his bizarre preferences, but because I used to hate being called Melissa as a child.  In 1970s Britain I felt this singled me out.  Then I used to hate it being shortened to 'Mel' in case people thought I was called 'Melanie', which was even worse.  More recently, I have clung onto Melissa as my 'Spanish' name and particularly the name for Pueblo Ingles programmes.  As soon as I got on the bus, I had to drop this, in favour of Mel, because I wasn't the only Melissa.  At first this seemed odd, what with Mel being the name adopted by close colleagues and close friends only, but after a few days, it seemed entirely appropriate.  I now love the fact that I have Spanish friends who call me Mel.

For me, one of the themes that ran through this year's Pueblo Ingles, was the idea of 'letting go'.   In my case, it was sensitivity about my name.  In the case of another young Anglo, it was about a pair of shoes.  I realise, of course, that, on a deeper level, this is about letting go of the past and embracing the future.  One thing I have realised, however, is that you can't actually let go of the need for others.  In the early days of my marriage break up, I felt so detached from others and so inhuman, I found it almost impossible to really care about what was going on in anyone's life, even my own.  That's changed now and, if this latest trip to Spain has taught me anything, it is that you need others and you need to be important to others.  That's normal and human.  Apart from a passion for music and parties, I like to believe that Charlie loved others too.  He served in the First World War, got married, raised two successful children and managed to create a happy environment for him and his extended family on very limited resources.  His life was short, but I think he did a good job.  I know what my passions are and that all I need to do now is follow them.  Perhaps what I really need to let go of is fear.   And maybe I need to reclaim the name Barnes.

Sunday Morning Zen

I won't lie.  It's been a strange few months and it doesn't look like there will be much let up in this for next few either.  The best word I can use to describe it is 'limbo' - which, having just consulted Wikipedia on its origins, is the word used in Catholic Theology to describe 'the edge of Hell'.  I don't know if I would go quite that far, but sometimes I do feel a bit like I'm living in Purgatory.  

Out of curiosity, I have also just Google'd this word and, it seems, contrary to my own Philistine (I'm not going to look that one up, just go with it) beliefs, Purgatory is, at least, not a permanent state.  In fact, if I am in Purgatory, then I am undergoing some sort of process of 'purification' before being moved on, which, in some ways, doesn't sound so bad I guess.  And this is one reason why, just to truly mix up my theologies, I have taken up the very Zen practise of swimming on a Sunday morning.

The idea of swimming as a 'Zen' pastime, was actually put to me by the sister of a friend of mine.  To be honest,  I have never seen myself as a spiritual person, and have therefore never put much credence in things like meditation, but I bought into the idea on the grounds that she does yoga and also lived in Japan once, so ought to know something about it.   I was also aware that I should be doing more to maintain my heavily-overloaded cardiovascular system.  Mostly, however, she convinced me of the benefits by telling me that, like myself, she is only capable of swimming a front crawl.

I say I have taken up the practise.  In reality, I do it for about three weeks at a time, forget about it for a few more weeks and then, when I really feel the need, do it again.  Yes, this isn't doing much to improve my general fitness.  It does, however, give my fevered brain a bit of a rest.  Just the process of focussing on your breathing, your strokes, the sensation of being held by the water is, well maybe not spiritual, but certainly a good way to start your day.  Another aspect is the people-watching. This varies depending on the time of day that you go, but there is a certain social microcosm that operates in my local pool which I find quietly fascinating.

My customary time for going is around 11am, which is primarily given over to kids, their divorced dads (no hot ones - I've checked) and rabid swimming teachers.  I have got quite used to the sound of one as she screams 'kick, Archie, kick' at the ginger-haired kid floundering next to me.  Today though, having woken up early after a particularly sedentary and not very interesting Saturday night, I ended up on the early morning shift.  The early-morning shift is basically, as I discovered, wall-to-wall pensioners.  Apart from one mildly disgruntled teenager, I was the youngest person in there by quite a long way.  I wish I could say the fittest, but I'll just have to content myself with youngest for now.  Anyway, I quickly learnt that this shift operates on a very strict social-code.  For a start, you do not, under any circumstances, use a locker that is in regular use by someone else.  Or at least, you do not, under any circumstances, use one particular lady's regular locker.   This is locker number 55, for anyone planning to be at Whitstable pool at 7.30am on a Sunday morning.  As I went to bundle my bags in there I heard a plaintive cry, "Oh, you're using number 55!"

Me: "Haha...sorry...is it lucky?"
Changing Room Lady: "I come here four times a week...it's good because I come straight from the changing room to the locker.  I always use this changing room."
Me: "That's ok...I'll use number 59...there."
Changing Room Lady: "It's good because I always know where my locker is.  I come here four times a week."

After this exchange, I head towards the pool area where I am met by the sight of all three sections of the pool separated out into lanes.  This brings me out in a bit of a cold sweat as I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a lane swimmer.  My first instinct is to rush over to the 'Lane Etiquette' signs in front and pretend to study them.   I am immediately approached by the same lady from the changing rooms.

Changing Room Lady: "Don't worry.  We all swim together.  I come four times a week.  You just need to choose a lane."
Me: "Ok thank you.  I will."
Changing Room Lady: "And we usually have a shower before we get in..."
Me: "Oh ok, I will"
Changing Room Lady: "You don't have to"
Me: "No...I will"

Post shower, I glance over all three lanes in a melting pot of indecision.  The first lane, which I believe to be the slow one that I should be taking, is stuffed with pensioners, including, by now, the lady from the changing rooms.  If they are not standing in the way chatting, they are doing a leisurely breastroke up the middle of the lane.  It looks fine, but I know if I get in there, I will be ploughing straight through them with my one choice of swimming stroke.  This seems rude, somehow.  The middle lane, although much quieter, is populated by serious swimmers, still all doing a leisurely breastroke nonetheless.  Again, I will be ploughing into the back of them with my one choice of swimming stroke and probably finding myself ejected on the grounds of bad pool etiquette.  Finally I plump for what is traditionally known as the 'fast' lane, on the grounds that there are only two people in it - one fairly relaxed looking woman and the disgruntled teenager holding a swimming float.

Decision made, I jump in and, feeling the pressure of finding myself in the 'fast' lane, decide to swim two lengths without stopping.  Half-way through the second length, my heart is already pounding and I'm exhausted, so embarrassingly I have to stop and have a quick rest.  I kind of hope the relatively attractive, young lifeguard isn't watching, although as the second-youngest person there, I stick out like a sore thumb and I know he probably is.  Having got that initial burst of activity out of the way, however, I relax and get into something approaching a rhythm.   I have already set my target for the morning - 10 lengths.  Ok, I realise that doesn't sound like much but, when you are restricted to the front crawl, it feels a little bit like doing a race and at least it gets the endorphins going.  I had worked myself up to 12 but, like I say, it's been a while.

On something like length number four, the endorphins start to kick in, and with them the more 'Zen-like' aspect of the morning.  I think, from my own narrow understanding of it, that the act of meditation is supposed to allow your mind to wander.  If this is true, then mine naturally wanders into some fairly dark places, as it casts back to a documentary I saw earlier in the week about the Marchioness disaster of 1989, where 51 people drowned in the Thames.  I imagine what it must have been like trying to swim in the dirty, freezing, tidal water and decide that I would have been dead within minutes.  I also think about the survivors' stories and reflect on one lady in particular, who seems to have survived the disaster with all her snobbery and class values still intact.  And then I wonder if that is just a product of her class; her British stiff upper lip that refuses to be changed in the face of tragedy and personal trauma.  I think about my own personal situation and reflect on the situations of others who impact on it.  Before I realise it, I have completed 10 lengths.

I am just in the process of deciding whether to go for another two lengths, when I am distracted by a voice.  It is the changing room lady again, still standing over in the far side of the pool.  I hear her shout, "You are in the wrong lane".  At first I think she is talking to the gentleman standing next to her but then it becomes clear she is talking to me.  I try to explain as audibly as possible, "I can only do the crawl.  I need to be here or I will bump into people."  "We all swim together", she says, "we come here every week".  She turns to the man next to her, "You go in the middle lane sometimes, don't you?"  I smile.  I don't know what else to say.

I take another few seconds, see the other woman in my lane take her leave, and decide I have got all I can out of the experience for the day.  I was trying to stretch it out to 30 minutes.  I am on about 25.  It's close enough.  I leave the changing room lady in the pool, still enjoying her swim I hope, despite my choice of lane.  She clearly wanted me to join her, and I might have, had I not actually wanted to swim.  I suppose, at the end of the day, we all have our own reasons for doing things.  Walking back through the normally busy Harbour Street at around 8am, I realise I can hear bird song.  Not bad going for the edge of Hell.

¿Qué Quiere Decir? - A Personal Guide to Learning Spanish

Looking back, my desire to learn Spanish, or indeed my love of most things Spanish, stems from my school days.  It started when our drama teacher introduced us to Gabriel Garcia Lorca and, simultaneously, one of my school friends, who was studying A level Spanish and about to embark on a series of trips around Latin America, told me it was an easy language to learn. Foolishly, I believed her, and bobbed along under this misconception for the intervening 'x' number of years, thinking that one day, despite my distinct lack of belief in miracles, I would miraculously just 'pick it up'. 

In fairness, there is a lot to be said for the 'just picking it up' approach to language learning.  To some extent it works, but you need to be constantly surrounded by it and, in any case, you are not going to advance very quickly or meaningfully without a reasonably solid starting point of basic structural knowledge and vocabulary.  My only real experience of speaking another language (and I distinguish this from the various rote-answering, speaking and listening/ reading comprehension activities I encountered whilst learning French at school) is the Albanian I pretty much just 'picked up' via the in-laws and associated friends.  I could get by on some fairly simple conversational structures and set phrases and could sit in a room and guess at the tone and gist of a conversation, as much, if not more, from the cadence and rhythms of people's voices, as the words being spoken.  I am not sure I could really call this either understanding or contributing in any meaningful sense.  Nevertheless, this is one aspect of my Spanish language study which is currently missing - experience and context.  In its absence, I have  to rely on what I can get from all-to-brief trips to Spain, the very rare occasions I can actually convince  Spanish friends to speak Spanish with me, the stilted conversation with my English born-and-bred Spanish teacher (that's not to dismiss his contribution, he does a fine job) and Spanish language films.

Anyway, I diverge, because whilst I could talk in onerous detail about my motivations for and experiences of learning Spanish, that is not very helpful for anyone who has any curiosity about the language.  I always thought of Spanish as 'my' language, even when I knew next to nothing about it.  Now I know next to something, I would like to share some of the things that might get the curious started down the right track.  Call it an alternative, absolute beginners guide to Spanish, if you like.  In reality, it is a very limited and motley collection of things that I think are either kind of cool or just downright funny about the Spanish language.  You might want to look out for some of these next time you are on holiday.

1. The statement as a question

The best thing by far about the Spanish language is that you can turn a statement into a question simply by your tone of voice; or, if you are writing it down, by using question marks.  If writing, you are then supposed to stick an upside-down question mark at the beginning, which is a bit fiddly I grant you.  (I have noticed lately that not everyone seems to bother with this. I'm not sure if this is just an example of a bad habit creeping in on Facebook or a genuine trend).  In any case, a statement such as "Estas cansada" (You are tired) retains the same form in question format - "¿Estas cansada?", which is pretty cool.  Not every question follows this format of course but it's good that it can.

2. No

'No' is also very useful.  Not only is it extremely easy to remember for English speakers but it can be added to the front of any verb to make it mean the opposite e.g. "Tengo dinero" (I have money), becomes the opposite ("No tengo dinero") as quickly as it does in real life.  And, of course, 'no' still means 'no', if you catch my drift.

3. Que/ qué

This is one of those things that I did actually pick up in context. It was right at the start of my recent burst of Spanish learning and I was listening to a drunken conversation between a native and non-native Spanish speaker.  As such, I think they were speaking a little more slowly and deliberately than usual.  It's also possible I tuned into it more easily because I, too, was pretty drunk (believe it or not, drunkenness can play a key role in language acquisition).  As someone who grew up with 'Fawlty Towers', I was of course entirely familiar with the accented "qué" as the equivalent of "what" in English.  However, during the course of this conversation, I quickly deduced that "que" (subsequently I learnt this version has no accent) also means and is used in the same way as "that" or "than" in English.  This may seem like a tiny breakthrough but it has proved extremely useful, in no small part because it leaves me able to make comparisons such as, "Estoy mas borracho que tú" (I am more drunk than you).

4. Punctuation

As someone who makes their living from slavishly reinforcing the use of capitals in every title, acronym and use of the personal pronoun, the lack of capitals in written Spanish is one aspect I find difficult to get to grips with.  Some, however, might see it as liberating.  Basically, apart from starting a sentence, capitals are almost nowhere to be seen.  Even the word 'Spanish' isn't capitalised it seems.  It can be a little confusing at times, especially when you are not sure if you are reading a title of something or not.  However, at least you won't get shot down by the punctuation police for not including them.  Conversely, Spanish people in general seem to be very fond of the exclamation mark.  I'm not just talking about one either - it's not uncommon to see four or five ending a sentence.   Exclamation marks used to be something that I was extremely snobbish about - I virtually had a physical aversion to them.  Now I chuck them in all over the place.  It seems rude not to.

5. Inanimate things can have voices - apparently

I am only basing this finding on an online Spanish course I recently enrolled on.  I never heard anyone actually say this but, evidently, one way of asking what something is or what it does, is to say "¿Qué quiere decir?", which literally means "What does it want to say?"  I mean, how cute is that?

6. If you are stuck, it is possible to guess

For English speakers, one of the beauties of learning a Latin-based language is that, thanks to the tyranny of the Medieval church, we now have a whole raft of vocabulary that crosses over into central Europe and beyond.  This simply means that is possible to guess - or to put it another way, "Es posible que te adivines" (or I believe this is how you would put it anyway - I am just wrapping my head around the subjunctive tense).  Actually the comparison I was making here was with the word 'possible' but, having just looked up the verb 'guess', you can make some connections here too. It is similar to the word 'divine', which in English, apart from an adjective used to describe someone rather fantastic (or holy, if that is your inclination), is also a verb that describes the action of looking for something or making an educated guess.  And, yes, the fact that I can see that probably does make me a bit of a language nerd.

7. It can be very poetic

Of course, one of the dangers of the many 'true friends' (as they are referred to by most language teachers) is their nemesis, the 'false friend'.  The best-known of these is the oft-quoted 'embarazada', which actually means pregnant.  I think we all agree that a mistake here could be embarrassing.  The most recent one I discovered was the word 'trampa', which doesn't mean 'tramp' but 'trap' and the only reason I mention it is because it cropped up during a discussion about art I was having with a Spanish friend of mine.  He was talking about an idea, which he referred to as 'una trampa para los ojos' (literally, 'a trap for the eyes'), less romantically known as an optical illusion.  I know which one I prefer.

8. Vowel sounds and dipthongs

One of the the nicest things about Spanish is that there are very few dipthongs - those horrible things that combine two or three vowels to make a different sound altogether.  In Spanish, for the most part, what you see is what you get - well, at least as far as vowels go.  I won't mention the consonants, except to say that I have been semi-reliably informed that no English person will ever be able to pronounce a 'd' properly in Spanish.  The 'rs' are pretty sexy, though.  Next time you meet a hot, Latin person, get them to roll their 'rs' for you - you'll see what I mean.

9. Cool words

In order to emotionally connect with a language in the early stages of language learning, I think it is important to have your own personal list of 'cool' words.  The first on my list was the word 'naranja' (orange).  Don't ask me why. It just seemed so odd to me at the time, it took on some kind of mythical quality.  Now I think I tend to rate words according to their usefulness and novelty, and the relationship between those two variables.  If it's new and I can see it's going to serve me well in the near future, then I get excited about it.  Maybe even more so than watching a hot, Latin person rollling their 'rs'.

10. Masculine/ feminine nouns and 'hedging your bets'

I find it amusing that there are two ways to say 'I love you' in Spanish ('te quiero';  'te amo').  This once came up as a subject for discussion in a Spanish class, and our teacher informed us that you only tend to use the second in relation to family members or children.   Later on it became the subject of some 'girl chat' with a female, Spanish friend.  Her take was a bit different; that the second only tends to get used when the bloke in question really means it.  I am not sure that hers' is the definitive answer; I think it is subject to debate, or at least that what the internet is telling me - I just like the idea that there is a way of saying 'I love you' that is a bit more open to interpretation.   On the other hand, when talking about a friend, then it is impossible to do this without specifying whether the friend in question is male or female (un amigo/ una amiga).  I have heard a few Spanish friends (entirely male, it has to be said) bemoaning the fact that English doesn't allow for this kind of clarity.  When you also take into consideration the fact that any noun becomes masculine when being discussed in the plural, you can't help thinking that Spanish serves the male of the species quite well.  Ok, I realise that this is potentially quite irritating, but at the moment it makes me smile.  I am looking forward to discovering what other subtleties are out there, and, yes, probably laughing about them...

Coming back to my original misapprehension that Spanish is an easy language to learn, I don't actually think that any language is easy to learn and certainly not out of context.  It is fun trying though and, if nothing else, you can laugh at your own idiocy, as you make feeble attempts to put it into practise.  We all have stories about the ludicrous things we realise we have said to people only moments after saying them.  I also find it funny that, a lot of the time, I still only understand what shopkeepers have said to me after I have walked away and the transaction is complete.  Hopefully, in time, my brain will start to process things a bit more quickly and I won't have to struggle quite so hard to make these connections.  In the meantime, the least I can do is take some joy in the language's little idiosyncrasies.   It would be nice if my list inspired someone else to take up the quest too.  Word of warning, though - if you hear anyone talking about 18 conjugations per tense, cover your ears.  You really don't want to know about this yet.

Another Pueblo Ingles?

Just under a year ago I made myself a promise.  I had recently completed a week's teaching on an English immersion programme in Spain for a company called, at that point in time, Pueblo Ingles (now known as 'Diverbo').  On that programme I met a lovely American woman from New York who, much like myself, had reached the age of 40 and, as I understand it (although I hate to put words in her own, very eloquent mouth), thought 'well, what now?'  Her answer to this question had been to pack up and ship out around the world, taking her extensive skills in internet technology and marketing with her, and writing her own blog as she went.  As she already knows, she served as something of an inspiration to me; primarily to start blogging in my own right, although truthfully, I think her influence has gone a lot further than that.


So what did I promise myself?  Well, essentially, I promised that, having completed my second round with the same programme, I would write about the first.  The fact is, weeks or months after completing the first there was no way I could write about it.  It inspired me to write, sure, but there was so much running around in my head after my first experience with this programme that I simply couldn't bring myself to open up and explore it all.  To be totally honest, I wasn't sure I liked everything that was going on in there.  To be even more brutally honest, I think the blogs I did write at the beginning of this year were partly a way of escaping the pain I felt at missing the people I met whilst there.  I don't know how obvious it might be to the outsider, but everything I wrote was, in some way, coloured by the experience I had in Spain.   Even when I tried to escape it, it was there, via some coded reference to an individual or feeling that I experienced.  That last sentence contains some code of it's own but I will try to be honest and explain why and how my first experience both enriched and challenged me, and ultimately led to to a change which is ongoing and, I suspect, permanent.

The great dilemma about a programme like Pueblo Ingles is that it is almost certainly going to shake up your life in some way and, despite being a wonderful opportunity and amazing experience, a little of you wonders if it is all worth it.  I know that to most rational people this sounds incomprehensible and even a little pathetic.  After all, it is simply a week-long, volunteer teaching programme, albeit in one of the greatest countries in the world (actually, they do also operate in Germany and Ireland but that is of little concern to me).  In some ways, my experience at the last Pueblo Ingles led to one of the best years of my life, if only because I spent all of it trying to compensate for something that, I felt at least, was missing.  A year on, I realise that all my compensatory tactics actually went somewhere.  They forced me to look at the world differently and, as a result, the person who landed in Madrid, ready to embark on the programme this time round, was very different to the one who ended up there a year ago.  Having just had a totally different experience on the same programme, I wonder if what follows can measure up.  Everything about this one was so fulfilling, I wonder if I will simply spend this year basking in the loveliness of it all and forgetting that I have anything to fight for.  Time, I guess, will tell.  I would love to talk about the experience I had this year because it really was wonderful but, I suspect, I can only talk with hindsight, so that is what I intend to do.

So what is the Spanish Pueblo Ingles (I'm going to stick with the old name for now, on the grounds that it is both Spanish and prettier)?   As I've already said, it is really just an English immersion programme, hosted in Spain for Spanish speakers wishing to improve their conversational English.  So far, so straightforward right?  And it is.  On a typical summer programme, you will have approximately 50 people staying in one place; 25 Spanish speakers against 25 'Anglos' (any English speaker from any part of the world).  Basically, a typical day on a Pueblo Ingles  programme consists of meeting people for 1:1 chats, possibly a bit of leading on telephone conversations, a possible spot of note-taking, taking part in some fairly ridiculous but lighthearted group activities and, finally, between conversations, getting lightly plastered on the cheap wine provided over dinner and whatever your after-dinner tipple happens to be.  Without going into too much detail, that is what it all boils down to.  Putting it like that, it hardly sounds life changing but, if you are open to it, it really can be.  Why?  Well, because of the people you meet there of course.

Before I go any further, I should probably explain that I am engaged in a long-running love affair with Spain.  Yes, I realise that if I move in, the love affair might turn sour, but right now, and for the last several years, I have been radiating in it's glow.  I've been using that expression a lot over the last year:  the 'love affair' expression.  If you've read any of my blogs, you will see it cropping up all over the place.  In the interests of honesty I should also point out that, like a large proportion of the western and eastern world, I have a horrible weakness for Spanish men - actually, not just Spanish men, but men of a Latino persuasion in general.  Hence, my mantra immediately prior to setting out on the last Pueblo Ingles of 'don't meet any men, don't meet any men'.  Of course, I met a man and developed, over the next few days, what can only be described as a slightly irritating at times and definitely distracting holiday crush.  So far, so typical of me really.  My first thought on seeing this individual was 'oh shit, there's trouble'.  In a way I was right, although not quite in the way that I thought.  The great, interesting and challenging thing about this programme, is that it continually turns your expectations on their head.  This is down to people, really, more than the programme itself.  For a start, and I might as well start here as much as anywhere else, having the opportunity to have a detached, professional conversation with that person allowed me to see someone I wasn't expecting to see at all.  I actually saw something of myself in him.  I didn't fully realise it at the time, but that is completely normal; on the whole we all have more similarities than differences and, in any group of people, at least a group of people all similarly interested in meeting others and developing an understanding of another culture and language, you will make connections.   Also, and this is the bit that has continued to affect me, during the course of our conversation he let me off the hook.

The hook, the one that I have swimming on for most of my life, is that I should have done more travelling by now.  I've spent my life believing that our country of origin is only an accident of birth.   As a child, my mother, in an act of prophetic wisdom that I doubt she is even aware of, hung a dodgy 1970s cross-stitch 'painting' of people in national costume on my bedroom wall.  That was it for me really.  I became obsessed with wanting to experience the rest of the world.  It was also an act of cruel irony, as my parents almost never travelled for the course of their entire marriage and actually never took me anywhere outside of the UK.  I didn't set foot in another country until the age of 11 when, thanks to a school trip (ok, my parents paid for that, so I guess they did do something to satiate my wanderlust) I finally found myself in France.  Going to France was exhilarating but also, to my surprise, my first and possibly strongest experience of 'culture shock'.  Actually, what shocked me about France wasn't so much it's differences compared to the UK (although some of those, like cutting off baby chicks' heads in the middle of a bustling market, were fairly shocking) but it's ordinariness.  My problem was, I had spent my entire youth flicking longingly through holiday brochures strewn about the place  by my older siblings and their friends.  I fully expected France to be some kind of tropical paradise.  For god's sake, I think I even expected dragons.

What I got, of course, was something far more real, subtle and interesting.  I have never experienced that kind of culture shock again because, in my somewhat limited experience of travel, I have learnt to just open my eyes and (to use a popular Pueblo Ingles idiom) 'go with the flow'.  I also have a habit of falling in love with wherever it is I happen to be.  It doesn't really matter how great or crap the country is, I usually find something to love about it.  One thing that I have never done, however, is really live in or experience a country for an extended period of time.  This, in a sense, was the 'hook' that I was released from.  One thing the Pueblo Ingles 1:1 does is make you open up about yourself and consider things that you hadn't even realised were there.  Having already been disarmed by having my expectations turned on their head, the above conversation was my first real experience of the 1:1 'confessional' and I found myself talking about a long-held regret at not taking an opportunity to spend a year in another country when it was presented to me.  Of course, being kind and Spanish and, I suspect by now, starting to slightly come on to me, my holiday crush reassured me that the timing and the place was wrong, that at a young age and being a lone, blond, blue-eyed (I'm not, by the way, my eyes are green) traveller, I would have been a 'target' and so on.  As I said, it let me off the hook; although only, I'm starting to think, temporarily.

I am kind of digressing because, in a way, this only explains part of the journey I went on during my first Pueblo Ingles.  It is a significant part, I suppose, because that holiday crush went on to become one of a comparatively smallish circle of people I really connected with and spent time with over that week and, therefore, one of those that I ended up feeling bereft of once the experience was over.  That, by the way, is the downside of any Pueblo Ingles programme.  Somehow, I think, no matter what shape or form the programme takes, you will always end up with a small pit of loneliness and loss that nothing can totally fill (although a weekend in Poland with one of them did a lot to alleviate that).  Even writing this blog is an attempt to fill some of that hole from the last one, which only ended two weeks ago.  Looking back on my first though, one thing that has intrigued me is how few of the people who were genuinely important to me at the time have kept in touch, whereas others, those I more or less took for granted, are still there.  Two of them even accompanied me on this programme and I am delighted to report that, thanks to our Facebook contact, the minute we saw each other, it was clear that we had all become friends.  We all had a similar feeling when coming across two more of our number (one Spanish, one 'Anglo') when the next week's 'intake' arrived.  This is one of the mysteries and, in some ways, excitements of the programme.  You genuinely don't know who will remain in your life.  Of course, having just had such a wonderful experience on the last one, I hope all of my recent contacts will remain in touch.  It depends on so many things though; willingness, busy lives, means of communication and sheer number being the primary factors.  Honestly, they were all so great, I will be happy if it is only a few; or even one or two.  In a way I've learnt not to care because, I do know that, one way or another, even if I only keep in touch with one more person out of the 50 on this programme, my life will be a little shinier for knowing that person.

It is that small, black hole, of course, that is also responsible for initiating change.  I put so much energy last year into filling it, that everything started to flow in a different direction; my attitude to work, my students and my colleagues (I became more honest and self-assured, even in the face of criticism), my attitude to the Flamenco dancing I love (from intimidation to passion), my attitude to learning Spanish (from fear to determination); and, fired by the sudden lack of people in my life, a desire to keep socialising, socialising, socialising to the point of exhaustion.  In a way, and I only really appreciated this after 'returning to the scene of the crime' (this is genuinely what I thought of my decision to do it again), I've learnt to stop being so hard on myself and to keep learning and growing.  I felt a huge sense of confidence last year but I've realised that this pales into insignificance next to the person I have become since.

So, apart from a desire to push myself and keep really, really busy, what else did I take away from last year's programme?  Well, in addition to an explosion of an already existing smoking habit, I mainly took away a burgeoning affection for Madrid, which has since been transformed into a full on 'love affair' (here we go again) with that crazy town.  I love it for many reasons.  Firstly it is home to many people that I now have a lot of affection for - that goes without saying, although who knows how many of them I will remain in contact with?  I would love to go back soon and catch up with some of them, although my attempts to catch up with the Madrid -dwellers I met last year eventually fell flat.  So, despite being populated by a number of people I love, I can't say it is only about the people I know who live there.  What I loved most this year was being able to communicate (badly, but reasonably effectively for my needs) in Spanish.  Obviously, I can go anywhere in the Spanish-speaking world and experience that but, what was so special, was the way it helped me engage with the town and the strangers in it.  Even getting a taxi to the Diverbo office was a delight because I could sort of communicate with the taxi driver (who was kind of sweet, now I come to think of it).  Of course, a lot of the things I love about Madrid are probably just typical of Spain; I love the clubbing culture (open to everyone, regardless of upward age, class, culture, whatever); I love the fact that, for about 7 euros, you can stay up until dawn if you want to (and dawn comes late in Spain, I've discovered); I love the little old shops and bars adorned with wood carvings.  I love all of that, but I also love it's layout and structure; the fact that you can easily walk everywhere in the centre, the amazing metro system, the abundance of people willing to just chat or help you out, even as you speak really crap Spanish at them.  I love La Latina, with small, sudden fights breaking out outside bars and onlookers barely raising an eyebrow.  I also love that you can be walking home at around 4am, get stopped for a light and find yourself talking to a guy from Gran Canaria who spent three years studying in your home town, simply because he recognises your accent (the Spanish, I've noticed, have a talent for instantaneously recognising Kent accents - it is both reassuring and a tiny bit alarming - I hate my accent).

However, as one of our recent Spanish students pointed out on Facebook the other day, Spain isn't just Madrid; well, of course not.   The thing that I really love and can't wait to discover about Spain is it's mass of contradictions and diversity.  It is in everything: from the way Spanish people move (spend a few years dancing Flamenco and you might start to understand this - languid one minute, like liquid mercury the next), to it's turbulent history, to it's mixture of tolerance and intolerance, to architecture - well to everything really.  I think, on balance, it is always good to end any really positive experience with a plan.  Last year my plan was to start learning Spanish in all seriousness - work in progress, obviously.  This year my plan is to definitely do another Pueblo Ingles and then spend at least a week travelling in the South - I know this is crazy and that it will be really hot at this time of year but my mind is made up: Cordoba, Sevilla and possibly, if there's time, Toledo.  I won't go through all of my reasons and inspirations for doing this but it has everything to do with dancing, food, architecture and art.  I will take a fan, of course.

About this year's programme, I can only be sure of one thing - something about me will change as a result over the coming year; it has to just by the nature of the beast.  All I can say at the moment is that I am expecting the coming year to be difficult, professionally at least.  I don't say that with a sense of doom, however, but with the knowledge that I am better equipped now to deal with it.  Even if everything were to implode (it won't, I'm being dramatic now), I know I won't become a victim to it.  One thing that struck me about this year's programme was what was described by one of my fellow 'Anglos' as an 'emotional maturity' within the group.  I'm not sure how much of this I can lay claim to myself, but I knew exactly what she meant.  I think it helped that a lot of us had done it before.  Minor slights, misdemeanours and differences were quickly resolved and forgotten, nobody tried to dominate, everyone made sure they took time to get to know everyone else and people generally just looked after each other.  There was no awkwardness, from my perspective anyway, and the teaching experience alone was one of the best I've ever had.  To say that, though, almost glosses over the fact that I also got to meet and know another 25 fantastic Spanish people, who taught me more than I could probably ever teach them.  Hopefully, I will carry some of this with me into next year.  I also really do hope to keep in touch with more than just one of the people I met.  I have to say, I've loved seeing the updates and photos on Facebook; already one of the Spanish people has completed the 'El Camino Santiago' since we last saw him - a massive achievement.  Me?  Well, right now, I just want to spend more time in Spain and give up smoking before I do that.  Anything's possible.  One day, I might even permanently release myself from that other hook I mentioned earlier.  If I do any or all of this, there will be a few a people I want to thank.  On the other hand, I'm not sure that's necessary.    They probably already know who they are.

What's Valentine's Got to Do With It? About the Messy Path to True Love

Over a pub lunch recently, I heard one of the best stories I have heard for a while.  It was related by my mother and concerned a friend of her's, who shall remain nameless (although in all honesty, I was only half listening at first and couldn't tell you her name now, even if you put a gun to my head).  The story came up because, for some reason, we had been talking about mental illness and how well people can recover from it.  The friend was mentioned because she had endured a terrible relationship with her parents and, as a result, suffered a nervous breakdown at the age of 16 or 17.  There was nothing particularly suprising about this fact, or her subsequent recovery, although I do know my mother regards her to be an exceptionally intelligent women, with a successful career behind her.  No, what was suprising to me (although less so my mother), was how she met her future husband. 

The subject, I was told, came up quite early on in their friendship, as they walked past the local psychiatric institution (long closed, since the Care in the Community reforms of the late 1980s).  The friend mentioned that this was where she and her husband had first met.  She went on to say that the husband (now deceased) had been Head of Psychiatry at the institution.  My mother, quite naturally, asked whether she had been a nurse there at the time, to which the friend replied - "Oh no. I was a patient."

My initial reaction to this was one of mild shock and discomfort.  I had visions of a brilliant but Machiavellian psychiatrist, using his experience, intellect and position of power to seduce and manipulate a vulnerable 17 year old girl.  Reassuringly, and as is usual in life, the truth is neither as cliched or routine as most fiction.  The couple actually met a number of years later, long after she had been discharged and made a full recovery.  He, meanwhile, had been separated or divorced for at least a couple of years.  Nevertheless, the story piqued my curiosity.  The husband was at least 20 years her senior.  They initially met whilst she was a patient under his care. As I listened, various questions occurred to me.  Had he been personally involved in any of her treatment?  Would he still be allowed to practice if the same thing were to happen today?  Was it their respective intellect which drew them together or something more mutually dependent?  And finally, how did their feelings for each other develop? Is it romantic to think that they were always there, lurking in the backs of their minds somewhere - or is that just plain creepy?  On reflection, I think that's probably just plain creepy, but it's hard not to imagine at the same time.

I bring all of this up, of course, not because I've been obsessing about it ever since, but because today is Valentine's Day and, if there ever was a time to pontificate about a love story, I guess this is it.  However, just as the above got me speculating, I often wonder what sort of questions people ask themselves about my own less-than-conventional love story with my husband.  Actually, Valentines Day plays quite a big part in this, although not in the way you might think - because Valentine's Day 2002 was the day my boyfriend of the time got stinking drunk and admitted he'd been sleeping with one of our mutual friends (thus opening up a world of opportunity with other, more appealing men) and Valentine's Day, 2003, was the day the immigration authorities deported the next one back to his homeland of Albania.  As you might imagine then, my feelings towards this particular celebration are somewhat mixed.  Nevertheless, although undeniably crap at the time, both days turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

For anyone who doesn't know, Albanians aren't really supposed to come and live in the UK without special permission from the British Embassy.  Usually, this special permission relies on things like a good education, money, the likelihood of a swift return etc.   None of these things applied to my future boyfriend, a wannabe Brit, who just wanted to escape boredom, unemployment and the one-horse town he was holed-up in.  So he did what any rational person would do in these circumstances, and hopped in the back of the nearest lorry headed for Dover (via, I should say, a cat and mouse trip round Italy, France, Italy, Belgium and back to France again).  Still, all of that is another story and one he should probably tell.

The final outcome of the deportation and subsequent months spent filling out forms and taking trips to the British Embassy in Tirana was, of course, that we got married and have been married ever since.  Again, the only rational thing to do in the circumstances.   It's hard to describe the feeling of being forcibly separated from a loved one, particularly in those early, heady days of a relationship.  In short, it's not a whole load of fun.  Added to that, I had several, slightly awkward situations to deal with - telling the parents that the nice Italian boy I had been seeing for 11 months was actually an Albanian illegal immigrant, telling his boss of two years the same thing, introducing myself to the immigration and border officials at the detention centre in Dover Docks (and bumping into one of my former students in the process), dealing with Embassy officials, putting up with ignorant comments from certain colleagues (although, in fairness, others turned out to be legends), trying to raise funds to travel out there and, basically, a whole catalogue of other crap that I would rather not have had to be doing.  So why did I do it?  Well, according to some experts, it all comes down to chemistry.

My favourite description of this chemistry comes from a newspaper article, entitled 'What is Love?  Theories on the greatest emotion of all', published last December in the Guardian, and it comes courtesy of famed theoretical physicist, Jim Al-Khalili:

"While lust is a temporary passionate sexual desire involving the increased release of chemicals such as testosterone and oestrogen, in true love, or attachment and bonding, the brain can release a whole set of chemicals: pheromones, dopamine, norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin and vasopressin."

When you consider this cocktail of chemicals being released into the bloodstream, it is hardly suprising that love is often described as a form of insanity.

Regardless of the science, however, the big question still remains.  What on earth is it that makes the brain behave in this deranged way in the first place?   I can't answer that here but I have a feeling it has to do with a whole range of things including psychology, timing, luck, lust, affection, intellectual stimulation and, crucially, mutual trust and understanding.  All things that are impossible to plan, control or pin down.   Which, when these are considered, makes the act of scribbling a mawkish message in a gaudy bit of card seem a bit lame and pointless.

I suppose I should admit to having a problem with Valentine's Day.  My problem is that it is all so conventional.  Hardly surprising, as the version of it we know today was effectively invented by those mothers of convention, the Victorians.  Before that, it was a tradition of courtship kept within the confines of the medieval aristocracy, where it probably should have stayed.   It is really a bit like Christmas.   Good for the kids, but loses some of its shine once you realise Santa Claus isn't real.  What I mean by this is that the version of love that Valentine's Day seems to celebrate isn't real.  The concept of love celebrated by Valentine's Day is the same concept that makes us seek out partners, simply because society expects us to have a partner and would judge us as a bit odd if we didn't.  It is about social pressure and conformity.  Which in my experience has nothing to do with the real thing.

In my view, the best love stories defy convention.  Anyone who is single at this point in time should take heart in that.  Human beings are geniuses at finding love in precisely the sorts of places they are not supposed to - at work, with other people's spouses, with people of the same sex when they are meant to prefer people of the opposite sex (and vice versa), with the girlfriends they knock up by accident, the people they started out hating, with former psychiatric patients and illegal immigrants and so on and so forth, ad infinitum.  I'm not saying that this does not carry it's dangers and problems.  I'm just saying that love found in these circumstances tends to be unselfconscious, more profound and, ultimately, more rewarding.  It is also something that you can't predict, plan for or fit round a schedule, particularly not one date on the calendar.

Holed Up and Counting Down...Goodbye 2012

On the first day of this month I was asked whether I was looking forward to Christmas, to which I replied 'No, I f***ing hate Christmas.'   It's not like me to be quite so blunt but this was several cocktails into the evening and my verbal filth filter had been temporarily disabled.  The reply that came suprised me though - 'Ha ha, I knew you would say that.  You're such a cynic.'

This comment came from someone who had known me for the sum total of a week back in August, when we met as fellow volunteer English teachers.  Nevertheless, it stung a bit.  I am a cynic, of course, but it worries me that other people notice, especially after just one week.  It worries me even more, as I work in an establishment where cynicism is practically banned; have my colleagues also noticed this ugly trait in my personality?  Probably.

The strength of my reaction to the whole Christmas thing doesn't come from the usual aversions to tinsel, spending time with family or buying presents though.  None of these things fill me with joy I have to say, but the worst thing, by far, about the Christmas holidays is the abject sloth.  There is a period of about a week when all societal norms go out of the window and even the act of getting out of my pyjamas and into the shower feels like a monumental achievement.  For the first couple of days, I wallow quite happily in this state of suspended animation.  After day four, though, serious cabin fever starts to set in.  By day five or six?  Well I am not completely paranoid delusional yet, but let's just say it's a good thing there isn't an axe in our garden shed or a reprise of Jack Nicholson's 'Johnny' in the Shining could well be on the cards.  Thank god, then, for the New Year.

Everyone knows that New Year's Eve is a let down.  That's a given.  By midnight, most people in their right minds are either too pissed or overwrought to even notice the time.  The only thing that's good about it is that it gets you out of the house.  This is what I'm looking forward to anyway - the two minute walk to my local.  This will happen in approximately four hours, so I have three hours to write this and an hour to make myself look vaguely human before the 'festivities' begin.  In that time, I thought I would try and reverse my natural state and look back at all the things that made 2012 a good year.  Actually, there has been quite a bit.  I'm going to start with the least likely of all.

Sport

Anyone who knows me, will be slightly taken aback by the fact that sport features quite so highly on my list of great things about 2012.  I have never been the sporting kind.  Although I have undertaken various 'sports' in my life, it's not exactly something that defines me.  This applies to football, especially.  I was that archetypal kid who always got picked last for football sides at school (yes, it hurt, but it was thoroughly deserved).   I can honestly say, however, that the moment Chelsea won the Champions League was amongst the happiest of my life.  I love Chelsea FC with a passion which is completely inexpicable and often missplaced.  I don't watch them very often (really, I'm not that into football - watching a match seems like quite a sad way to spend an afternoon most of the time) but when I do, I feel myself turning into a rabid fan.  My love of Chelsea is an enduring love - they let me down time and again but I will always be there for them.  I think my original interest started as a vague crush on Gianfranco Zola back in 1995, but they really gripped me when I happened to catch them beating Liverpool 6 - 2 at the Anfield stadium.  Ironic, as I am now married to a Liverpool supporter (this did cause a drunken argument earlier this year, when Chelsea beat them to the FA Cup).  Now, despite my general lack of commitment, I still consider myself part of a Chelsea family of fans.  The Champions League win was, for me, one of the craziest nights of this year (and that really is saying something). The best thing was that it was won on penalties, ensuring a crucifying few minutes of tension.  Luckily I had brought along my neice, herself an Arsenal supporter but conveniently on hand to cuddle when things got too much.   When Drogba scored the winning goal, the whole place errupted.  I was hugged more times than I care to mention by grown men in tears.  Basically, if that had been the only good thing that happened this year, it would have been a pretty good year.

Of course, you can't mention sport this year without mentioning the Olympics.  I have to say, if anyone thinks I am cynical, then they obviously never met any Londoners in the run up to the Olympics.  The best one I met was on a training course in the Kings Cross area.  God love her, whoever she was, but I have never met a more embittered old hag when it came to the subject.  As anyone living in this country will tell you, however, we all did a complete turnaround once the event was underway.

I myself, in my own act of cynical rebellion, had a friend visiting and had booked tickets to see a comedy show on the night of the opening ceremony.  It was a good night as it happened - the 'flash mob' we participated in on the balcony of Whitstable's Horsebridge Centre being another highlight of the year.   However, the best part of the evening was coming home to find my husband and our 19 year-old house guest glued to the TV in a state of patriotic zeal (funny, as they are both Albanian).  My friend and I managed to somewhat spoil this for them by singing along tunelessly to 'Hey Jude' but, generally, the scene was set for two weeks of the most shameless, partisan, armchair-sportsmanship ever.  At one point, the evening where Jessica Ennis won the heptathlon, Mo Farah won whatever distance it was that he won and the long-jump guy won, well the long jump I guess, I actually sat painting my nails with the Union Jack in the belief that this would somehow send out positive 'vibes' to 'our' competitors.  I also posted this on Facebook:

Just as a final mention for sporting highlights of 2012, I can't finish without reference to Andy Murray.  Tennis is about the only sport I actually participate in from time to time and is, therefore, the only one with any real meaning for me.  I was genuinely quite upset, for instance, when Rafael Nadal pulled out of Wimbledon this year due to injury.  This was tempered, however, by the excitement of a 'Brit' (even a cantakerous, Scottish one) ending up in the final after 70-odd years.  In fairness, he put up an amazing fight and his tears on losing the title were heartbreaking.  In one of many crowd-pleasing success stories  relating to the Olympics, he then went on to win the Olympic title.  What a man - no, really.

Old Friends/ New Friends

It's been a great year for catching up with old friends.  From the 40th birthday party I was invited to in January, where I got to spend time with someone I haven't seen for 15 years and was reminded about everything that made her so special to know, to the extremely wet Jubilee weekend, which included my best friend's birthday party and three food and wine-fuelled days in a caravan with one of my best friends from university, to the unexpected but extremely happy wedding of my best friend's younger brother, to the fun weekend spent with another university friend, ushering in the aforementioned Olympics, it's been great.

I owe special thanks, however, to my dance teacher, who made me aware of the Pueblo Ingles, English immersion programme in Spain.  I applied to volunteer for this in April, thinking that I had little chance of getting on it so late in the year.  It was hugely exciting to be accepted two days later.   I'll be honest, though. My main reason for doing it was to get a cheap holiday.  As the time approached, however, I started to read the small print and realised that I was, in fact, going to be working almost 24-7.  I shouldn't have worried, though.  It was work, yes, but it was also a ball from beginning to end and has pretty much left a lasting impression on me.  It has also left me in touch with a number of people from around the world who I would never have known about otherwise.  It struck me, some time after I got back, that it was the first time in my life where I have travelled anywhere completely alone.  Yes, okay, I'm 41 and have obviously been to places on my own before, but I have also had someone I know to meet me at the other end.  With that in mind, I can't tell you how odd or exciting it is to spend 8 days in the pretty-much round-the-clock company of 53 total strangers.  Time is ticking, and I only have an hour or so before I start to 'beautify' myself, so even if I could tell you, I literally can't.  All I can say is that it inspired me to try things that I have never tried before, prompted me to start learning Spanish again, improved my attitude at work and, above all, reminded me how interesting and lovely people are.  Does that sound cynical to you?  I don't think so.

And finally....dance, dance and more dance

Okay, as well as being a cynic, I am a hedonist.  Maybe I'm selfish and should do some charitable works in my free time but I am also firmly in the belief that everyone needs and deserves a passion that is all their own in their lives.  For me, this is dancing.    Primarily, it is Flamenco dancing and, again, there is so much to say about this that it deserves a blog in it's own right.  Having the chance to perform again back in March was great and also inspiring because I could see how much we have all improved, since our first performances around three years ago.  This is one of the things I love about dancing - you never get any worse at it and, most of the time, if you stick with it, you get better.    There are few things in my life that I can honestly say this about.  Well, perhaps there are, but, as well as being a cynic and a hedonist, I can be very impatient and will tend to drop things like a hot brick if they don't seem to be working out how I want them to.  Also, I love being part of a growing Whistable 'troupe' of dancers.  Again, all wonderful and interesting people, who I am lucky enough to socialise with from time to time.

Recently, though, I discovered a whole new world of Salsa, after inviting myself along to a party night with one of my colleagues from work.  The thing I love about Salsa is it's social nature.  You always dance with a partner and, frankly, that partner could be anybody.  With Flamenco, although I dance with other people, essentially it is between yourself and a largely imaginary 'audience'.  With Salsa, it is about you and one other person, or at least for the duration of that dance.  As a female, you are also surrendering yourself to someone else's lead.

I struggled with this at first, especially as the first person I danced with was a very large Eastern European man, who forced me into a Kizomba hold, before I had even had a chance to get in my first lesson.  Kizomba, for anyone who doesn't know, is a form of dance orginating from Portugal via Zambia and is danced very, very closely to another person.  It is about as intimate as you can get with a total stranger in public without being arrested and looks a little bit like the last dance at a school disco.  Suffice to say, I was a little alarmed when the large man from Eastern Europe grabbed me, especially as my friend from work hadn't even arrived yet.  After treading on his foot for the fiftieth time, I did tell him that I wasn't used to being led.  'No', he corrected me 'you are not used to following...'  I don't know quite what he was getting at here - I like to think that there was some kind of hidden philosphical meaning in it, although in truth he was probably just correcting my English.

Putting this slightly awkward encounter to one side, there is something sweetly intimate and old fashioned about Salsa dancing.  It is customary, I have noticed, to thank your partner after a dance has finished, which I think is lovely.  A Salsa party night is also one time when it is positively advisable not to drink (actually this is probably true of most nights, although can't help thinking there's no fun in that).  It is also hugely entertaining if you like dancing and especially if you love Latin music.   If anyone is thinking about cutting out alcohol for a New Year's resolution, then I can highly recommend taking up Salsa as an alternative.

I myself, on the other hand, have no intentions of cutting out alcohol in the near future, and fully intend to spend this evening jigging away in an embarrassing fashion to the band playing in my local pub (the band in question is called 'Kelly's Heroes' I believe - they sound awful).   I don't know if anyone will read this, especially at this late hour, but if you do, I hope you have a reasonably tolerable evening with your loved ones close at hand and, most of all, a 2013 packed with special memories.  Looking back on  mine has helped put things into perspective - I now feel more myself and less 'Johnny', so all's well that ends well.  And on that note...

Happy New Year!

Dig Out Your Vinyl

Getting to and from work has become more of a chore than usual lately.  This is on account of some long-running and pesky roadworks which, according to the signs, were meant to be finished weeks ago - 28th October, 2012 to be precise.  Colleagues who travel the same way as me have pointed out that the 28th October part has now been scrubbed out.  Which just leaves 2012...I suspect this will go the same way before long.  True to form, we have all noticed that no actual 'work' seems to be going on at these 'roadworks'.    Some have speculated that the work is perhaps going on under the bridge, where we can't see it happening.  I prefer the suggestion I heard yesterday - that there are 'invisible Oompa-Loompas', beavering away right before our untrained eyes.  In any case, at a certain point in the journey, the traffic gets stuck and stays stuck for a very long time.

It doesn't take much for me to drift off at the best of times, but this situation creates the perfect conditions for musing on the most inane aspects of existence.   This week, amongst the usual debris, I have found my head space cluttered with memories of how I used to 'do' music, before the invention of MP3 players and ipods.  This may be due to the fact that my ipod has stopped working in my car.  It may also be due to a documentary about the UK singles chart I saw the other night.   Whatever the reasons, at some point I recall thinking to myself that I am part of the last generation to have 'done' vinyl.

The term 'generation' is one that has perplexed me for quite some time, as I've never been quite sure what it means.  On closer inspection, I have discovered that there are two types - familial and cultural generations.   Familial is the obvious one - measured apparently by the approximate length of time it takes between a daughter being born and producing offspring of her own.  The second, it seems, is pretty much anything you can lay claim to.  In that case, then, I am laying claim to being one of the last members of the vinyl/ mix tape generation.  I would count CDs in this but, when it comes to talking about the music we listen to (some call it 'taste' but, as you are about to see, this really is a misnomer in my case) we are talking about something that germinates and, essentially, flowers in our formative years.  My formative years didn't include CDs as I didn't get a CD player until I was at least part-way into my 20s.  Before that, I had what was unimaginatively described as a 'music centre'.  It was called this, presumably, because it had all the essential components of playing music - in other words, a record player, two tape decks (for copying tapes) and a radio tuner.  This was all you really needed in the 1980s.  Despite it's unattractive design and, no doubt, place at the lower end of the audio equipment food chain, my music centre was fabulous.  For a start, it was loud; a student friend of mine once commented that they could see the walls of our university residence shaking with the sound of my music centre's output.  It was also a reliable companion for many years.  I acquired it (in other words, my parents bought it for me) when I started secondary school and it stayed with me until I was taking my finals at university.   That's over 10 years of general abuse and being moved about - I'm not even sure if it was actually broken when I finally did get rid of it.

So I've covered the equipment, now what about the music?  I've already said, music for me came in two formats - vinyl and cassette tape.   The cassettes are long gone.  Lost in the mists of time or, at least, sitting in an unwound heap somewhere in my mother's attic.  What remains, however, is the vinyl.  And why does the vinyl remain?  Because - as anyone who has ever bought a record will tell you - vinyl is special.  Ok, cassettes were functional and certainly more convenient - especially for playing when you were on the move.   Their successors - CDs, ipods etc - became popular for largely the same reasons.  Owning vinyl, however, had particular meaning.   Buying a single was partly an act of allegiance - showing solidarity with your favourite song and participating in the great social experiment known as 'the charts'.  Having an album went far beyond the music - you could spend many hours with your friends, reading and re-reading the cover notes or studying the images on the sleeve - it was also a lifestyle statement and, certainly by the time I left home, a decorative room accessory.  Vinyl on the whole, therefore, was a shared experience.  Vinyl also demanded your respect.  I remember as a kid having a phobia about placing a needle on a record.  I just couldn't bear the terrible, warped, scratching sound it made if it all went wrong.  I spent years overcoming this and honing the skills necessary to get it right.  As I discovered, placing a needle on a record required focus, good manual dexterity and attention to detail.  Like a high-maintenance partner, a record insists on being loved and treated with care.  This is why, to this day, I still have my motley and somewhat questionable record 'collection'.  Something which, against my better judgement, I suddenly feel like sharing.

The Singles

First of all, I am limiting this to the singles I actually bought, rather than those that were given to me as a kid.  I am doing this in the spirit of openness and honesty.  After all, I can neither lay claim to or admit responsibility for the Adam Ant records my sister gave me. On the other hand, I do have to own up to having bought 'Eyes Without a Face' by Billy Idol.  I'm sure I had my reasons at the time.  And that's the great thing about having a singles collection.  No matter how embarrassing or perverse, there were always reasons. A singles collection tells you a lot about your adolescent self.  My particular one starts in 1983 and ends in 1990,  thus taking me from a child into what should have been adulthood.  Secondly, in the interests of time, I am going to limit it to one single a year (except for 1983).  So (deep breath) here we go...

1983 and the first single(s):  Nena - 99 Red Balloons/ Van Halen - Jump

People often talk about their first single - I can't exactly do this because I bought two on the same day.  What interests me is that these singles are like two sides of the same coin.  '99 Red Balloons' is about the total annihilation of mankind, albeit cosily wrapped up in a catchy chorus and driving guitar riff.  Nena is a German singer, there was still an 'East Germany' at the time and the Cold War was still raging.   It reminds me of how preoccupied everyone, including myself, was with the threat of nuclear war.  Van Halen's 'Jump', on the other hand, is a completely mindless, West Coast American romp of a song - 'might as well jump - Jump! - go ahead and jump'.  There is also something fittingly nihilistic about it, however, and, faced with the threat of a nuclear winter, I suppose I can't blame myself for wanting to even things out.  What worries me most in both of these cases, though, is my apparent liking for soft rock.

1984: Howard Jones - Like to Get to Know You Well

Unlike the book of the same title, 1984 was my year for keeping things light, as well as developing a burgeoning interest in the opposite sex.  1980s electronica seems to feature quite heavily, I was a massive Duran Duran fan and that little sex-pixie Prince hadn't escaped my attention either.  Looking back over my selections, though, I can see that I was also starting to develop something along the lines of a social conscience.  Apart from Duran's Andy Taylor, the most important person in my world at this time was Howard Jones.  Friends and family may see things differently of course, but, to me, he was everything.  It was a slightly unusual schoolgirl crush perhaps.  For a popstar, Howard Jones had the sort of face only a mother could love.  This didn't matter though.  He had a lovely smile and, crucially, he was a man after my own heart - vegetarian, into world peace and mutual understanding and very fond of analysing and pulling apart the things that bond us as human beings.  Ok, so I'm no longer vegetarian but I still hold Howard personally responsible for shaping the person I am today.  I could even go further and credit him (if that is the correct phrase here) with my philosophy degree but that's probably pushing it.  I eventually bought all his albums, of course, but for some reason I also saw fit to buy this single:

Even the cover to this single was thought-provoking.  In my youth, I could only pick out one of the foreign languages above with any certainty.  I'm pleased to say my skills have improved slightly in this area, although the first one still has me completely stumped.   I won't say that this cover alone inspired an interest in travel, but it certainly played its part.

1985: Frankie Goes to Hollywood - Welcome to the Pleasuredome

Looking at my choices from 1985, I can see straight away that Britain was at the height of its 1980s excesses and deep in the middle of it ran a social divide.  On the one hand, I have the over-produced, overblown posturing of Duran Duran breakaway group, The Power Station with 'Some Like it Hot' (bought purely, it has to be said, out of loyalty to the aforementioned Andy) and on the other hand, a cover of Marvin Gaye's 'Inner City Blues' by lesser-known Liverpool band, Working Week.   The Working Week single was clearly a result of my wrestling with a guilty conscience, because, by this stage, I totally loved another Liverpool band -  Frankie Goes to Hollywood.  Frankie Goes to Hollywood did 1980s excess with panache and, in my view, it was more than okay to like them because they were so in your face with their homosexuality.  Having said that, they blew cash like there was no tomorrow and their lyrics were ridiculously over-the-top.  And if you need an example, try this refrain from 'Welcome to the Pleasuredome' out for size:

I will give you diamonds by the shower
Love your body even when it's old
Do it just as long as I can do it
And never, ever, doing what I'm told

The diamonds are a bit off my radar, but there's a lot to be said for this, truth be told.

1986: The Fine Young Cannibals - Funny How Love Is

First of all, I have noticed a disturbing trend amongst my singles choices from 1986 - the jazz saxophone/ jazz trumpet.  Frankly, if I never hear another saxophone solo again, it will be too soon.  Thankfully, the trumpet solo in this song is quite short.  When I looked at this single yesterday, I chortled at my innocence - Funny How Love Is - what did I know about love at the age of 15?  Actually, the song isn't a love song at all.  It's about being ditched and then telling the one who rejected you to get lost and stay lost.  In fact, this was probably the most positively influential thing I listened to in those tender years: I don't want your magazines. I don't want your clothes.  Take them from my house.  Let me be alone - sage words, FYC.  Sage words.  Wish I'd paid more attention.

1987: Jackie Wilson - The Sweetest Feeling

1987 was the year when my taste in music really started going retro.  At this point I was already deeply into The Doors, Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones thanks, mainly, to the more advanced musical taste of my boyfriend of the time.  As well as the heavier stuff, though, my sixties soul button had been activated, in part due to clever marketing by the Wilson estate (I assume), who had a huge hit with a re-release of 'Reet Petite' at the end of 1986.   'The Sweetest Feeling' was the follow up single and I loved it.  It is a very sweet song, full of joy and longing, and still ranks up there as one of my favourites of all time.  I honestly don't know if it reminded me of anyone back in 1987...if it did then it wasn't my boyfriend.

1988: The Mission - Tower of Strength

I was never a goth.  Apart from a fondness for black, I never even flirted with goth.  I was alarmed, therefore, to find a single by 'The Mission' in my collection.  However, after a quick listen on 'You Tube' I was reassured.  It is a good track; over-the-top and dramatic, with an element of optimism and romance - just how how a good goth track should be.   Still not totally sure why I bought it though.

1989: Swing Out Sister - Break Out

If I was reassured to find my only foray into goth was quite a successful one, I am truly horrified to realise that this is the only single I saw fit to buy in 1989.  I honestly don't know what possessed me - it's awful and, not only that, it represents everything I loathed about the charts at the time.  I can only put it down to some kind of forced surrender.  What's worse is, there was some really excellent stuff around that year (Soul to Soul, The Stone Roses - even Cathy Dennis was better than this) - I guess I must have been taping it all off the radio.

1990: Adamski - Killer

Evidently, I only bought three singles this year, but I'm glad to say that at least two of them were classics.  Adamski's version of Seal's 'Killer' was fantastic and, in those days, such a departure from the huge production values of the 80s.  1990 was the year dance music really took off in Britain.  Mainly, however, it reminds me of driving back from a party at a local squat and hearing it come on the radio.  Part of the soundtrack to my misspent youth.

The Albums

The difference with albums, of course, is that you don't always buy them the minute they hit the shops.  In some cases, I have no idea specifically when I bought a particular album - I just have vague (in some cases, very vague) recollections of what was going on at the time.  For this reason, rather than by year, I'm going to do it in three categories - the good, bad and the ugly.  Of course, this means that a large proportion of them will fall in the cracks between these categories, but this is probably no bad thing.  I should say, for the sake of posterity, that the first album I ever bought was 'Under a Blood Red Sky' by U2.  I'm not entirely sure why I bought this album - it was okay I suppose, but I think the main reason I got it was because I had just been taken to the first ever Virgin Megastore and felt I had to buy something.  In later years, being an American import, it was useful for impressing boyfriends with - but that's about it.  Not an impressive start, but I did say I was doing this in the spirit of openness and honesty, after all.

The good:

I can't possibly narrow this down to one - I might be able to narrow it down to four or five.  This goes in phases - phases of moral and spiritual degeneration, largely.

Phase One: Teenage Angst

The ultimate teenage angst album in my collection has to be 'Hatful of Hollow' by the Smiths.  To be totally honest I wasn't a raging Smiths fan like some - but I still thought they were great.  Like Adamski's Killer,  'How Soon is Now' is one of those songs that I can remember hearing for the first time and thinking that I had never heard anything quite like it before. I bought this album some time after it came out. I think I was driven to do so by a friend (who described himself as bisexual) telling me that 'What Difference Does it Make?' was written about Morrisey's experiences in dealing with his own sexuality.  I hadn't read that much into it myself, but I thought it deserved a proper listen.  The best thing about 'Hatful of Hollow' is that all the lyrics are printed on the sleeve.  Perfect for angsty teenagers.  You don't get that with an MP4.

Phase Two: Teenage Rebellion

Truly, my teenage rebellion didn't feel that rebellious.  It didn't help that I had quite laid-back parents, who, after raising three others, didn't seem to mind overly when I stayed out getting drunk with my boyfriend all night.  Maybe I just didn't tell them very much - I certainly never told them how much I was drinking.  Anyway, the majority of my teenage rebellion was conducted to 'Smash Hits' by the Jimi Hendrix Experience.  Actually, as the title implies, this is simply a compilation of the Jimi Hendrix Experience's greatest hits, but it was this album, alongside a borrowed copy of 'Let it Bleed' by the Rolling Stones and my own copy of 'The Best of the Doors', that started the downhill slide.   It also opened my ears to what really great music sounded like.  I'll never forget being semi-conscious on the floor of a friend's house and hearing 'Purple Haze' for the first time.  Of course, these were the days when I could recall things after a night out.  Before, I was always too drunk to get home but could remember every social nuance of the evening with perfect clarity.  Now, I'm always sober enough to make it home, but I'm lucky if I remember how I got there, let alone what I said to anybody.

Phase Three: Teenage Meltdown

The album that probably best signifies the beginning of my teenage meltdown is 'Atomiser' by Big Black.  Big Black was ubiquitous at most parties in the late 1980s, particularly those populated by boys with dyed black, backcombed hair and fringes that covered most of their face.  It's opening track, 'Jordan, Minnesota', is particularly nasty and I would recommend that anyone gives that one a miss.  However, 'Kerosene' and, in fact, most of the tracks on this album, are genius and I can still quite happily listen to them now if I am in the mood.  'Kerosene' had particular resonance for me and, now I mention it, still does - the line 'probably going to die in this town - lived here my whole life' reminded me of life in my current home town of Whitstable (not my place of birth, but close enough for union work, as my brother in law would say).  Oddly, I got away from Whitstable, only to find that I missed it and decided to return.  This lyric, therefore, still applies.

Phase Four: The End of the Road

I am having a hard time figuring out what the last really good album I ever bought on vinyl was - I have a copy of the Beatles' 'White Album', for instance, but I happen to know that I bought this to replace a copy I had on cassette, so I don't think it really counts.  I'm afraid to say, I think there can only be one choice here and that is the album with no title, otherwise know as 'Led Zep IV'.  I listened to this album so much during my first year at university that I feel like I know it better than the back of my hand.  Some of it was, of course, already familiar to me.  Thanks to a mix tape from my sister, I grew up listening to 'Stairway to Heaven' for example.  Yes, most of it is pretty cheesy and the folkish, mystical references are so unlike me but you just can't argue with Led Zeppelin and it sounded really cracking on my clunky old music centre.  I think it is also relevant that I bought my last really good record shortly before hitting the age of 20.

The bad:

Luckily, there isn't too much actual 'bad' in my collection, as every album I have ever bought has a least some merit, even if it is only on one track.  I am happy to make an exception for the Ozric Tentacles and their album 'Pungent Effulgent', however.   I wouldn't mind but I went to see them live about five times whilst I was at university.    The Ozrics were basically part of the whole 'crusty'/ hippy/ traveller subculture that I skirted around the edges of for a while there in my late teens.  I can forgive them for that, however.  What I can't forgive them for, is being 'prog rock'.  I cannot believe I spent literally hours that I will never get back, listening to prog rock.

The ugly:

Another, related subculture I skirted around the edges of in my late teens was punk.  At the time, of course, I never regarded the 'punk' (if I'm allowed to call some of it that - the problem with punks is that they tend to get very defensive) I listened to as ugly.  I have very fond memories of certain albums - 'Margin Walker' by Fugazi or 'The Sky is Falling and I Want My Mommy' by Jello Biafra and No Means No.  These were the bands I used to enjoy watching live.  I'm sure I have some classic 'punk' albums in my record collection.  If they weren't a bit battered, some of them may even be of value.   I will never, ever listen to any of it ever again though.

I'm relieved to say that this concludes my little trip down memory lane.  The sad part is, most of the music I really loved listening to wasn't on vinyl at all.  'Doolittle' and 'Surfer Rosa' by the Pixies are completely missing from here as a result, as is 'Dark Side of the Moon' by Pink Floyd.  Even 'Rio' by Duran Duran was on tape.  All of these are now gone.  It takes a particular type of obsessive music fan to keep hold of an old cassette tape and, as I think the list above reveals, I am not one of those.   It does make me wonder how much technology will poliarize us in the future, though.  It was easy with records. You bought a record and that was it.   As the recent court case between Bruce Willis and Apple revealed, you may pay for it but you never really own a download.  For the less organised or technologically able, it is unlikely that we we keep hold of much of the stuff we download now.  Or maybe I'm just wallowing in nostalgia here.  After all, records take up loads of space.  I can't keep 2000 records in my house but I can on my ipod.  And if, in 30 years' time, you see me compiling a list of these, please feel free to go ahead and shoot me.