On her own two bare feet

Being the seasoned travellers that we are, we decided to arrive in Barcelona, in peak season, without accommodation arranged. This, we agreed, would give us the opportunity to find somewhere that felt right. Right? Wrong. We spent the first 4 hours of our first day in Barcelona, wedded to the guidebook searching for a bed – any bed – and came up with nothing. Well one place that looked like a glorified brothel and if it weren’t for the decisive impulse to jump on a train to somewhere else, we may have had to take our lives into our hands.
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Up at 06.30, last minute cutting and pasting for lessons, teaching, preparing for afternoon lessons, teaching, supervising activities, preparing for the next day, patrolling the residence with hoarse drills of SHHHHH and LIGHTS OUT and IF I HAVE TO COME IN HERE ONE MORE TIME. . . (Who have I become?). . .In bed by midnight, and then up again at 06.30 to do it all again. . .The sheer exhaustion is taking its toll. . . I am getting stricter in my classroom and decided to enforce a strict no foreign languages policy today- anyone who was heard speaking in their own language was banished from the class for a 2 minute time out – it was quite effective until I chastised a boy for speaking Italian and commanded that he must SPEAK IN FRENCH! He looked completely bewildered, thinking I was enforcing a cruel punishment. Maybe on some level, I was. . . So going slightly mad but enjoying it all the same. . .Can’t wait for a French September in the Pyrenees.

The month of mai in France is plagued by long weekends. But rather than sit at home complaining about my reduction in working hours, I reluctantly agreed to head away for a 4 day weekend with my flatmate to the north-west coast of France in Bretagne. I took the TGV from Paris to Morlaix, feeling both very Parisian and very grown-up, for not only was I snacking on camembert and a fresh brown baguette, I had been organised enough to pack this lunch the night before!
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Spring has sprung and I have joined my local piscine for a little lap action. The French swim the way they drive. Hurried, erratic and with no thought for other travellers they swerve around on-coming traffic, fail to pause the requisite 2 seconds and face plant into the next swimmers flailing feet, or create their own 3rd lane and breast kick everyone on either side. I am at the point in my life in Paris where I desperately need some swear words. The best I could must, after a women stopped dead in my lane to chat to a friend and I backstroked right into her, was a deeply sarcastic Bonjour! (hello people!!!!) which was kind of lost in translation and everyone in the pool had a little giggle at my attempt.

And so began my Friday English class for the Parisian unemployed. Doing my best to make listening tasks a little less dull for all of us. I am getting into the groove of teaching after a shakey start. And hoping to take on a few private students. The last month has been high-stress negotiating a fabulous share flat in Montparnasse (tick), a job (tick), a bank account (tick), and a work permit (tick). . .

In the midst of my bureaucratic dealings I have had a few highlights.
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My month began with the CELTA course (certificate in english language teaching adults). I taught English to a group of ultra-suave middle-aged parisians. The fact that I spoke only a minimum of French was a major stumbling block. How could they have the requisite respect for a language teacher who had not mastered the master language? Anyway I survived the perfect infinitive and conditional imperative, and developed my ability to mime and gesture abstract concepts (a handy pub skill).
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The beauty of Ryan Air is that we got a 1p ticket (-taxes) from London to Venice (Treviso). (Note information in brackets tends to be the most important). Treviso is not actually in Venice. It is an 1hr10min bus trip from the closest Vaparetto (ferry ) stop. So at 10.30pm at night we dragged ourselves onto the bus to get ‘closer to’ town.
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I was offered another trip to Paris just weeks after my return. This time a romantic weekend. A research secondment to see if the ‘city of love’ is more than just a clever marketing slogan.
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And so we have the linguistically awkward situations I found myself in, in Paris. The city of verbal paranoia. Even though I have never formally studied French I was determined not to speak English and got away with the French I had most of the time (thanks to a phrase book with phonetics). But after being mocked for my pronunciation of the number one ‘un’, I found I was no longer able to order anything in a single portion, it was deux everything after that.

Despite this hiccup I had a deliciously indulgent week with my sister and ticked off many of the ‘must-do’s’ and also had time to just chill out and enjoy sunning in the gardens, leisurely strolls past buskers along the Seine and doing the crossword in cafes in bohemian Montmartre

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Granada
Synchroniously a friend of a friend of a friend – an english speaking german woman – was driving to Granada, so I hitched a lift. We took the inland route through naturally desolate dry, dusty plains of various brown and yellow tones;

and industrially desolate cities that literally pack and litter the coast line.
The atmosphere was set by the sweeping saharan winds of dust that danced and settled across the windscreen.

I arrived in Granada in the arabic quarter with its winding cobbled streets, too narrow for cars, too steep for bikes – a maze of colourful corridors packed with market stalls and wandering people. I found the teahouse Pervane owned by the Sufis that were to meet me. I spent a couple of nights with the Sufis – which was challenging since only one man spoke moderate english – but we managed. We spent each night at the teahouse with random individuals pulling up a stool; sometime for a few minutes, sometimes for a few hours.

Time has a different quality in Spain. Everything goes at a slower pace and at a different rhythm. While the days can be quiet and crawl along, the nights are warm and lively. Life is lived passionately and without pretense, which is at once shocking and liberating. From Granada I continued alone onto Sevilla, my last stop.
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