Defiantly I have kept the balcony doors open.
This far into December it seems worth it, if only to irritate the people back home. I have to admit that it has been one of those days when I considered putting the central heating on as well but that would be cheating in the same way as café culture in northern climates survives with space heaters.
When I finally ventured out into the sun (fully clothed) I was shamed to see a couple of people throwing themselves into the sea – one of them ripping off all his clothes and frolicking naked in the icy waves. As this was done to shrieks of laughter from his companions and much taking of photographs I feel that this was more a statement than a bathe. Much like my reading in the afternoon sun well sheltered from the slightest breeze whose softest touch would remind you of the month!
The rituals of Christmas are beginning to parade themselves before me. The first today was when the top set of lights on the Christmas tree went out. I half heartedly checked the plug and connections; considered checking the fuse but felt that it was far too technical and fiddly and finally looked at the branches and wondered if it was possible to take off the string of lights without stripping the tree.
I then noticed that this set of lights had one of those bulbs with a splash of white paint on the tip. This, I knew was important as some hazy memory returned telling me that this was the outward sign of inward electrical safety. I am now not used to replaceable bulbs so I gingerly pulled on the tip of the glass and low and behold it came out. Microscopic examination revealed (I think) that the filament was broken so it was simply a case of replacing the bulb for the array to burst forth in multicoloured lighting glory.
The first shops that I asked about a replacement bulb looked at me as if I was insane.
Now I am prepared to believe that my Spanish was capable of the most amazing interpretations (in a recent screening of the film ‘Heat’ I translated “this shirt was given to me by my son” as “my son needs an operation” – I take comfort from the fact that at least one noun was common to both versions) but I did take the bulb with me so that I could point at the actual item that I needed. This made no difference at all.
In my experience Spanish people have two responses to their inability to provide you with what you want. The first is pained indignation that you have asked them for anything in the first place, while the second is complete contemptuous dismissal that they could have, would have, or ever will have what you want.
Asking where you might find the item merely produces the vaguest of indication of a location which prompts you to start on a futile soul destroying pilgrimage from shop shrine to wayside street monument all of which do not contain the item you require.
The only reasonable response to a commodity request that I have discovered in my eighteen months in this country is to go to the Tabac.
Whatever you want a simple request to these purveyors of cancer sticks will usually prompt a retirement to the back of the shop and a later reappearance with what you want. I don’t know why it works, but it does. You want a stamp: Tobacconist. You want a walking stick: Tobacconist. You want a small ball point pen to fit in your wallet: Tobacconist. You want an A4 envelope: Tobacconist. You want a pen with a built in laser pointer: Tobacconist. You want open heart surgery: look elsewhere. Most needs though: Tobacconist.
Tomorrow: the test.
This far into December it seems worth it, if only to irritate the people back home. I have to admit that it has been one of those days when I considered putting the central heating on as well but that would be cheating in the same way as café culture in northern climates survives with space heaters.
When I finally ventured out into the sun (fully clothed) I was shamed to see a couple of people throwing themselves into the sea – one of them ripping off all his clothes and frolicking naked in the icy waves. As this was done to shrieks of laughter from his companions and much taking of photographs I feel that this was more a statement than a bathe. Much like my reading in the afternoon sun well sheltered from the slightest breeze whose softest touch would remind you of the month!
The rituals of Christmas are beginning to parade themselves before me. The first today was when the top set of lights on the Christmas tree went out. I half heartedly checked the plug and connections; considered checking the fuse but felt that it was far too technical and fiddly and finally looked at the branches and wondered if it was possible to take off the string of lights without stripping the tree.
I then noticed that this set of lights had one of those bulbs with a splash of white paint on the tip. This, I knew was important as some hazy memory returned telling me that this was the outward sign of inward electrical safety. I am now not used to replaceable bulbs so I gingerly pulled on the tip of the glass and low and behold it came out. Microscopic examination revealed (I think) that the filament was broken so it was simply a case of replacing the bulb for the array to burst forth in multicoloured lighting glory.
The first shops that I asked about a replacement bulb looked at me as if I was insane.
Now I am prepared to believe that my Spanish was capable of the most amazing interpretations (in a recent screening of the film ‘Heat’ I translated “this shirt was given to me by my son” as “my son needs an operation” – I take comfort from the fact that at least one noun was common to both versions) but I did take the bulb with me so that I could point at the actual item that I needed. This made no difference at all.
In my experience Spanish people have two responses to their inability to provide you with what you want. The first is pained indignation that you have asked them for anything in the first place, while the second is complete contemptuous dismissal that they could have, would have, or ever will have what you want.
Asking where you might find the item merely produces the vaguest of indication of a location which prompts you to start on a futile soul destroying pilgrimage from shop shrine to wayside street monument all of which do not contain the item you require.
The only reasonable response to a commodity request that I have discovered in my eighteen months in this country is to go to the Tabac.
Whatever you want a simple request to these purveyors of cancer sticks will usually prompt a retirement to the back of the shop and a later reappearance with what you want. I don’t know why it works, but it does. You want a stamp: Tobacconist. You want a walking stick: Tobacconist. You want a small ball point pen to fit in your wallet: Tobacconist. You want an A4 envelope: Tobacconist. You want a pen with a built in laser pointer: Tobacconist. You want open heart surgery: look elsewhere. Most needs though: Tobacconist.
Tomorrow: the test.
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