has landed me in Seville. Originally this seemingly random trip wasn't to be so random, with me heading down to Andalusia (will be using this yucky anglicised spelling as authorised by Wikipedia) to experience the birthplace of many so-called Spanish icons and just generally have a good time during Semana Santa. The latter was a motive for me coming here but eventually proved to be my undoing as I could find no beds in Granada or Córdoba later this week. No problem, will be heading north to Lisbon instead!
The two days here have confirmed Seville's second place in my list of so-far visited Spanish cities, which means it's above Barcelona and behind Valencia, which is by default unpassable. Even though it might be as touristy as B-town during Semana Santa, this place has culture bursting from it. Seeing Parc Guell, the Sagrada Família and all of Gaudí's masterpieces is a fantastic experience if expensive. However with Seville architectural charms know no bounds; you only need to look up to see something Moorish and definitely moreish. Almost every bar I have stepped into here carries the distinct tiling. The seseo stands out here whilst I seldom got addressed in Catalan in Barça (okay, it's not the same, but you get my drift).
When I arrived I was dead set on seeing a flamenco performance, without castanets. I could have seen one in Barça, indeed bars were adorned with performance ads and souvenir shops carried the characteristic young girl's dress. But I waited until today: flamenco is seen outside Spain as Spanish, a national musical genre. Tourists and migrants from the south have used the nation-state of Spain to put an Andalusian gem in Catalan heartland. In reality this nation-state the only thing making flamenco Spanish. I wouldn't dream of paying to see flamenco anywhere other than down saaf, much like I wouldn't speak Galician in Valencia or expect anyone in Extremadura to know what a fallera looks like.
But I'd eat a crepe anywhere in France; Breton they may be, but stronger the French national identity also is. /yoda On a visit of my housemate's (also French) friend he was to buy his sister a souvenir; she had specified "algo de España", which means fallera models and Valencia-branded crockery were rejected in favour of a glass with an Osborne bull on it. I admit to ignorantly wrinkling my nose thinking "typical French" given the two countries' completely different attitudes toward regional identity. Makes you think, though.
The flamenco was awesome by the way. To Lisbon!
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Currently
the weather is good. I'm in Spain though so any Brit could expect it. The strawberries are out already and it's only April. Cold soup at lunchtime. Novelties abound.
Living abroad is strange. What once was too exciting to fathom becomes regular. That foreign numberplate you were looking out for on the M11 is now all around you, any eager ears pricked up in Camden to hear the odd bit of Spanish from teenage tourists now require no effort, and the occasional day where you can leave the house in but a tee in spring is no longer occasional, but an expected norm. Even boarding an aeroplane, the most thrilling of the thrilling, loses something after Ryanair cabin crew refuse to take a breath in between their umpteen attempts to sell you something on your umpteenth flight.
Does it become mundane though? If you're like me and you haven't until now been thinking about how best to use time outside the very little amount of hours spent in class, maybe. If you're also like me and remain enthralled on every step taken on the busy Valencian streets, maybe not. Shop windows. Traffic signs. Police cars. The way paving stones are arranged on the street. Palm trees. Elegant cream-coloured balconied buildings. All different. Yet the creators of these are people that do it neither worse or better, just different, right down to their communication with each other.
Still, not much time remains to benefit from all of this. Opportunities to sit down, drink a cortado and read Sartre or Cortázar, or alternatively to head to the beach and murder the feet hopelessly trying to play football, are numbered. One thing is certain: I need to read, listen, speak and write as much as possible, in any language. Next year is going to be the biggest task of my life in terms of personal maturity: securing the good degree. Not only for practical purposes; if I succeed I will know that I can live more organised than I am used to.
The work starts now.
Living abroad is strange. What once was too exciting to fathom becomes regular. That foreign numberplate you were looking out for on the M11 is now all around you, any eager ears pricked up in Camden to hear the odd bit of Spanish from teenage tourists now require no effort, and the occasional day where you can leave the house in but a tee in spring is no longer occasional, but an expected norm. Even boarding an aeroplane, the most thrilling of the thrilling, loses something after Ryanair cabin crew refuse to take a breath in between their umpteen attempts to sell you something on your umpteenth flight.
Does it become mundane though? If you're like me and you haven't until now been thinking about how best to use time outside the very little amount of hours spent in class, maybe. If you're also like me and remain enthralled on every step taken on the busy Valencian streets, maybe not. Shop windows. Traffic signs. Police cars. The way paving stones are arranged on the street. Palm trees. Elegant cream-coloured balconied buildings. All different. Yet the creators of these are people that do it neither worse or better, just different, right down to their communication with each other.
Still, not much time remains to benefit from all of this. Opportunities to sit down, drink a cortado and read Sartre or Cortázar, or alternatively to head to the beach and murder the feet hopelessly trying to play football, are numbered. One thing is certain: I need to read, listen, speak and write as much as possible, in any language. Next year is going to be the biggest task of my life in terms of personal maturity: securing the good degree. Not only for practical purposes; if I succeed I will know that I can live more organised than I am used to.
The work starts now.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Renaissance
After a year of no-show I have decided to return to the humble weblog. The answer to any question as to why I stopped is simple and succinct: laziness. The answer as to why I've come back, however, is much more complicated. A will to end the laziness. A will to write more to remain on my toes for my final university year. A will to think and open my mind more. I could go on. The next post will actually contain relevant material.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
Sterling times in Stirling
I thought people might like an account of the epic BUCS journey this weekend, so here it is.
Last Friday wasn't an especially cold day in town. I remember cramming all the stuff in to my suitcase and popping down to college to hand some work in and sweating in my coat on the way. It wasn't going to be that mild in Scotland, though, so I sweated all the way to King's Cross where I arrived with ages in spare time. As we boarded the train I remember someone giving me the most horrendous death stare as my bag gave him the lightest touch on his shoulder. After nearly five hours of uneventful travel (excluding a wild hen party and crossing the Tyne) I had arrived in Edinburgh for the very first time. We connected onto the Stirling train on which I opened the world's best dish of pasta, no lie. After nearly an hour we got off and found the hostel after an unexpectedly short walk. It was run by a middle-aged Danish bloke who appeared to be backpacking. He liked to drink. A trip to Tesco ensued in which I made the most bizarre discovery of own brand Irn Bru, and bed was at 11. Too early. I had been to bed the night before at about 2, but I slept remarkably adequately. Had the obligatory breakfast of cold oats and milk, and headed up to the race.
The race was too long for me. Eleven kilometres is okay but too much when you have to stay focussed for more or less forty minutes. I came 102nd, missing out on a half purple for ULU by two places. Ah well. That's what you get when you don't revise hard enough. It was alright anyway.
We proceeded to watch a very successful game of rugby on England's part, and sampled Tennent's finest lager before going to eat feeling tipsy from three drinks. The bacon burger helped. The after party followed, which took London's mildness to a new level. The dancefloor had no air conditioning and was packed full. The bar wait time was about half an hour, if you were aggressive enough. We left at about half 1 on Durham's coach (don't ask) and it was straight to bed. The following morning's run was a laboured affair initially, but we soon made light work of 62 minutes.
Shower and we left. I sent the folks a postcard, and we boarded an earlier train for Edinburgh, so we could spend a couple of hours marvelling at the sights. The 'Burgh was indeed marvellous. We caught some food (my choice was sausages and mash) and we went for Waverley. We all sat together which was fantastic, and I showed Stephen the magic of Sporcle.com. Jelly Babies and M&Ms were distributed in abundance. At about half 8 the train arrived in London again, ending the magic...
The after-after party is on Wednesday. Looking forward.
Last Friday wasn't an especially cold day in town. I remember cramming all the stuff in to my suitcase and popping down to college to hand some work in and sweating in my coat on the way. It wasn't going to be that mild in Scotland, though, so I sweated all the way to King's Cross where I arrived with ages in spare time. As we boarded the train I remember someone giving me the most horrendous death stare as my bag gave him the lightest touch on his shoulder. After nearly five hours of uneventful travel (excluding a wild hen party and crossing the Tyne) I had arrived in Edinburgh for the very first time. We connected onto the Stirling train on which I opened the world's best dish of pasta, no lie. After nearly an hour we got off and found the hostel after an unexpectedly short walk. It was run by a middle-aged Danish bloke who appeared to be backpacking. He liked to drink. A trip to Tesco ensued in which I made the most bizarre discovery of own brand Irn Bru, and bed was at 11. Too early. I had been to bed the night before at about 2, but I slept remarkably adequately. Had the obligatory breakfast of cold oats and milk, and headed up to the race.
The race was too long for me. Eleven kilometres is okay but too much when you have to stay focussed for more or less forty minutes. I came 102nd, missing out on a half purple for ULU by two places. Ah well. That's what you get when you don't revise hard enough. It was alright anyway.
We proceeded to watch a very successful game of rugby on England's part, and sampled Tennent's finest lager before going to eat feeling tipsy from three drinks. The bacon burger helped. The after party followed, which took London's mildness to a new level. The dancefloor had no air conditioning and was packed full. The bar wait time was about half an hour, if you were aggressive enough. We left at about half 1 on Durham's coach (don't ask) and it was straight to bed. The following morning's run was a laboured affair initially, but we soon made light work of 62 minutes.
Shower and we left. I sent the folks a postcard, and we boarded an earlier train for Edinburgh, so we could spend a couple of hours marvelling at the sights. The 'Burgh was indeed marvellous. We caught some food (my choice was sausages and mash) and we went for Waverley. We all sat together which was fantastic, and I showed Stephen the magic of Sporcle.com. Jelly Babies and M&Ms were distributed in abundance. At about half 8 the train arrived in London again, ending the magic...
The after-after party is on Wednesday. Looking forward.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Getting on
The year's getting on, we're already twenty days into it. I'm finding myself a lot more at ease than last term, maybe because my social life hasn't quite exploded into three or more nights out a week this year.
I actually enjoy my course now though, and I really enjoy French as a language. I find André Gide most engaging, which is fortunate because I'll probably have to write an essay on his work at some point. Now for Duras, Beckett, Éluard and Genet. I need to go back across het Canaal. Thinking of Paris at Easter if I can afford it. Spanish, meh. I want to go to Madrid next year though.
I've only done two track sessions so far this year, one indoors and the other outdoors, and the latter was so poor I could well have been walking. Backwards. I can't say I'm overly concerned about it, though. I'll get better in time for BUCS. Sixteen days to go, until R3 goes north, dudes. Race in Reading next Wednesday. Let's rip it up.
I actually enjoy my course now though, and I really enjoy French as a language. I find André Gide most engaging, which is fortunate because I'll probably have to write an essay on his work at some point. Now for Duras, Beckett, Éluard and Genet. I need to go back across het Canaal. Thinking of Paris at Easter if I can afford it. Spanish, meh. I want to go to Madrid next year though.
I've only done two track sessions so far this year, one indoors and the other outdoors, and the latter was so poor I could well have been walking. Backwards. I can't say I'm overly concerned about it, though. I'll get better in time for BUCS. Sixteen days to go, until R3 goes north, dudes. Race in Reading next Wednesday. Let's rip it up.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
J'suis Londonien pour toujours.
Oui, j'écris cette message en français. Je sais pas pourqoui. Je peux peut-être m'exprimer mieux comme ça. Que dis-je? Ouais. Je retourne à Londres demain, où je vis. Je suis Londonien pour toujours, même si mon niveau de français améliore autant que j'oubile l'anglais. Je ne choisirais aucune ville française avant Londres. Je m'excite peut-être trop d'y aller. Qu'est-qu'il y a à part beaucoup de travail et la manque de nourriture? Il y a mes colocataires, ou bien mes frères. Nous nous saoulerons ensemble le mercredi, woooo, la boîte Roxy! Et bien je me réveille le matin suivant avec une migraine. Ça vaut la peine, hein?
S'il reste de la neige chez moi ça m'irritera. Je dois préparer pour le championnat britannique. C'est pas facile avec ce temps. Ça me fait penser qu'il y a une personne qui fait tout qu'il peut pour m'empêcher. Ça ne marchera pas. Je vais courir le mieux possible.
S'il reste de la neige chez moi ça m'irritera. Je dois préparer pour le championnat britannique. C'est pas facile avec ce temps. Ça me fait penser qu'il y a une personne qui fait tout qu'il peut pour m'empêcher. Ça ne marchera pas. Je vais courir le mieux possible.
Friday, 8 January 2010
Twenty-ten
Hi! It's twenty-ten, or two thousand and ten. Or two thousand ten, if you don't like limes. I think I shall pronounce it twenty-ten. Fiona Bruce does, I noticed.
I had a good Christmas. I hope you did too. I stayed at the folks' house in old KL, saw old friends, and generally just chilled out. London's calling though, as Joe Strummer once sang. The fam are missing me. I'm itching to go back, and the only thing stopping me isn't emotional. Mum won't miss me that much. It's physical. It's the weather.
Now I don't mind the snow for a few days, people at home, go sledding, et cetera. But after the excitement, you realise that it's neither here nor there. It's a nightmare hindered by the council's categorical refusal to grit pavements because someone might slip because there's no fucking ice there. I was planning on running today and now I can't go quicker than eight minute miling without breaking an arm. The track's shut. It's cold. The trains probably won't be running. The Spurs game is off. I'll probably get snowballs thrown at me when I do finally get back to London. At least the cricket's a nice restbite.
Now I've jinxed it. We'll probably lose the last test. Sheer brilliance by Paul Collingwood, Ian Bell and Graham Onions keeping the series from South Africa. Now let's not make ourselves rely on poor Graham's batting ability. I hope he takes all twenty wickets in the next match. Strauss and Cook will each get a century in the first and second innings respectively. Now that's wishful thinking.
I had a good Christmas. I hope you did too. I stayed at the folks' house in old KL, saw old friends, and generally just chilled out. London's calling though, as Joe Strummer once sang. The fam are missing me. I'm itching to go back, and the only thing stopping me isn't emotional. Mum won't miss me that much. It's physical. It's the weather.
Now I don't mind the snow for a few days, people at home, go sledding, et cetera. But after the excitement, you realise that it's neither here nor there. It's a nightmare hindered by the council's categorical refusal to grit pavements because someone might slip because there's no fucking ice there. I was planning on running today and now I can't go quicker than eight minute miling without breaking an arm. The track's shut. It's cold. The trains probably won't be running. The Spurs game is off. I'll probably get snowballs thrown at me when I do finally get back to London. At least the cricket's a nice restbite.
Now I've jinxed it. We'll probably lose the last test. Sheer brilliance by Paul Collingwood, Ian Bell and Graham Onions keeping the series from South Africa. Now let's not make ourselves rely on poor Graham's batting ability. I hope he takes all twenty wickets in the next match. Strauss and Cook will each get a century in the first and second innings respectively. Now that's wishful thinking.
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