It has come to my attention that I seem to be in training to be Supermum one day.
Whilst staying on the farm and having the fortune of looking after the 5 yr old girl that lived there for a few evenings a week for 2 months I now know that I don´t want to live with a 5 yr old ever ever again. And if that means putting off the kiddies for a couple of decades I think I can handle that because a child that refuses to go to bed without a packet of chocolate biscuits - I can´t handle very well at all.
However there were a few things I learn´t about looking after the dear little thing whilst being left in front of her favourite 7 TV programs a night and her insesent whines for something or nothing. Admittedly anything I´ve previously known about childcare I got from Channel 4´s Supernanny but I wasn´t sure how easily translated ´the naughty step´would be in a Spanish Bungalow. So I prepared the littlen for bedtime by saying in 10 minutes or after the next program you´re going to bed and got her to aggree with me. The more she watched TV though the more it became a problem for her parents of how close she got the the set. So a few weeks into babystiting duties they told me to tell her not to sit too close and if she didnt obey to switch the TV off. So one evening, armed with the determination and firm believe of Supernanny herself, I prepared for battle.
One, two, three times I asked her to move away from the TV and defiance was ever more apparent. So I reached for the plug and switched off. At first I walked away and sat down explaining why the TV was off. This was a mistake for she was used to just going behind the TV and switching it back on. This did not sit well with me and I had to make sure I took complete control of the situation. So I tried getting rid of the plug but some how the 5 yr old became an eletronic genius and managed to work the TV post plug. I didn´t understand but just went to the main socket an switched off. And stayed there. At first she decided to act all let´s play a game which weaker sitters might think means she´s come round to your way of thinking and is ready to co-operate. But beware - they are distraction techniques designed to lull you into a false sense of security until - pounce - they are in control, again.
Unfortunately my lack of communication skills in her language made it slightly difficult for her to understand why I was sitting on the TV controls but I tried to keep explaining in my limited spanish. This went on for 10 minutes and she had just decided to give in when her parents came home. There arival changed her mode of behaviour becasue she knew that one scream in their ear would sometimes (not all the time I had noted) work and thus undoing my work on dicipline. I´m pretty sure at times she tried the whole ´she´s not letting me routine´hopefully the parents didn´t fall for it. ´
Having now left the farm and living in a flat and teaching English in the city of Madrid I now find myself tutoring another ´challenging´child. She is Spanish but her Dad is from America and she goes to a Scottish school in the city where they follow the curriculum of UK. (Her mum says it´s English but all the teachers are from Scotland which is a separate country much to the confusion of foreigners I come accross). Last week it was her SATS. I am soooooooooooooooooooooooo lucky I only had to do them once and I was 10-11 when I had to. She is 6 years old. 6 and she had a whole week of exams! It´s just not right. She feels herself that it´s not right as last Tuesday there was a Comprehension Exam which she outright refused to do. As soon as I was told this I had uneasy flashbacks of my own refusals in class.
I am compasionate of the amount of work she is given as homework by the school (3 separate exersises for completion the next day at times), her difficulties with reading (she mixes up letters and words which could be classed as Dyslexia but I refuse to label a child who is simply different) and her recognition of her differences compared to her classmates leading to her low self-confidence but I don´t know if I´m the best person to help her through this. Because my understanding which comes from my own experience isn´t letting me, at the moment, find a solution or process to help her through her problems.
It´s something that has to be worked on I guess. It´s just sometimes, when we´re reading Biff and Chip and answering the corresponsing questions I get the same terrible boring, pointless feeling that I had myself as a child. Although to be fair Biff and Chip is way more interesting that what I had to read and those Magic Key adventures remind me of the good times. But still when we´re doing some maths exercises like find the missing number, or what´s the pattern - I don´t know who still needs improvement - me or her.
Friday 30 May 2008
Wednesday 7 May 2008
Down on the Farm
Finca del Molino, Valdeolmos, Monday, end of March 2008 where I lay my scene. First day saw me adjusting to life in a foreign country I was pleased to be in and a language I was keen to understand. Angel, the owner of the Finca had gone to work and his wife Rosa, spoke no English so chores were off for the day. Angel had told me in emails that his place was not an organic farm and on living here for a while it is more of an experimental project for the familly and friends. All which I´m sure reap answers for the greater good of mankind.
Angel´s house was built 15 years ago but he says he has not lived in it all that time. It is a house I warmed to immediately and as I´m extremely sensitive to my manmade surroundings I was glad of this. Perhaps it was the previous day spent mostly traipsing around in the sun and the thought of being stranded that meant as soon as I walked in I felt welcomed or it could have been due to the hippy hangings on the wall and teh cute picures painted onto the pastel coloures walls.
My bedroom is a little room off teh main living and dining area that lets light in through two of teh internal walls with glass bricks at the top. There is a window facing south to the back of the house and the back land with curtains that are a little too transparent for my liking. To try and solve this I raised an old blind that was folded at the bottom of the window, inbetween the outside and inside glazing.
The floors are tiled throughout, some now lifting a little out of place and the windows in the bathroom are a little rusty, the shower holder up on the wall broken, but all this only adds to some sense of charm to this place. It being a B and B somewhere hosting travellers as they come and go in a fairly impersonal fashion would make this a depressing place. But it has been lived in by a familly and been made their own with personal objects. Glad to be feeling at ease here, I looked forward to a wealth of information on sustainable living.
My first task was to paint a summer house with oil. Not exactly what you would call organic (although the oil was sunflower and Angel said the price had gone up threefold within the past year because of people using it as fuel for their cars. Painting that whole cabin seemed a bit daunting all by myself and tedious. But I was happy to do it as on walking in I recognised the smell of new wood from my own summerhouse back home and was pleased for the comforting memory. Dragging the stepladders out of teh unused swimming pool, finding brushes and rollers in the tool shed dodging the wasps that inhabeted it for a while, I decamped for a day at the top of the farm´s land in the cabin. Having once decided on some sort of plan - roof first, walls then floor - I set about to do my part. The activity gave me alot of time to think as you can imagine.
Too much time to think though as a week and a bit of that and my next task was to weed the permaculture flower beds. This I was looking forward to as it was what I had come to learn about. The amount of weeding though that had to be done, I was not looking forward to. And all by myself! Gloving up, kneeling down, dodgy hoe in my right hand I became a human jukebox to stave off the brutality of natural silence. The natural silence, which is in fact natural noise. The noise of birds, insects the village church striking on the hour and at half past, the builders a couple of fields away building a new housing estate and distant cars on dusty roads. My own music and imagination became enlightened against nature´s white noise.
Weeds vex me. They are illusive and masters of disguise. I found that those with the most horrendous of foliage that pricked and hurt were in fact the easiet to up root. They had one thick root that grew vertically down, allowing for little anchorage. On pulling these up I would be glad of the achievement of a whole, unwanted plant being removed. I felt equal negativity when the plant broke away from the root system leaving a hidden part of it buried in the ground so that it may rejuvenate. The hardest of these weeds to pull up were those that had leaves which were fairly inconspicuaous but a tremendous root system. I had to srcrape and excavate the soil around teh plant to get a firm grip of the very base of the plant and pull with focussed force. If successful then the weed was retrieved with an alien like tentacle system that I was afraid to look at for too long in case it might come alive (I think this is an image put into my head by a bad Harry Potter film).
The weeds are not taken to a seperate composting department but simply strewn straight on top of the straw covered beds. Permaculture requires that 70% of what came out of the environment, stays in the environment. The straw is to provide a culture for the plant to breath on top of the soil. This way of nothing added, nothing taken away means that the plants grow in an obvious more naturally way and also, the ground they grow in becomes better year after year. The beds are lines of mounds that have been dug from the land and shaped. It is important I learned that one doesn´t step on the beds so that the soil does not become depressed. The emphasis here is on as little human interfierence as possible. When I had finished weeding I replensihed the supply of straw with a smell that reminded me of mucking out stables.
I weeded in total 2 gardens and a tunnel. I hoped that I did a good job because a few weeks after I got to actually plant some things that would be harvested in July for the familly to eat. Delicately lifting the seedlings from their plastic shells, and placing the in moist soil, I felt quite some responsibility to the end process. I felt extremely glad to be part of teh process too and on finishing planting I was strangely uplifted. My back ached and I had dirt under my fingernails but I had never felt better. Like I had really achieved something important.
Sunday 4 May 2008
Mother´s Day - continued
My fellow Americans and I had travelled over the period of the clocks going forward so when we arrived in Madrid we didn´t know what time it was. Our confusion was over wether the time stated on the ticket was the changed time or time without daylight savings. Also we though we might be a little late arriving. We had lost the fourth girl sometime in the middle of the night in the north of Spain. We recieved our passports back and disembarked. I dragged myself and my luggage out onto the platforma nd said goodbye to the Americans for the first time. I then thought that I would skip breakfast (it was 10.00am) as I wanted to arrive at my final destination in Spain as quickly as possible. This turned out to be a mistake.
I wandered around the station, lapping it and the Americans several times before finding the right directions to the subway. Below, I waited at a nice new subway station for a train to Plaza Castilla where I was to catch the 182 bus to Valdeolmost. I think I must have arrived there at 11.00am with all the wasted time at Chamartin. I followed directions for the buses until I reached a subway crossroads. To my left was a sign for ´autobus subterráneo´and to my right a sign for ´autobus terminal´. I went right as all logic pointed to a bus terminal for buses out of the city than some metrobus thing.
On reaching the surface I found I had arrived at an old, smelly bustation with very little busses passing through. I had been told that the busses left at ten to the hour so I sat in that place for just under an hour for a bus to come. A bus didnt come, I had been waiting 2 hours when I thought. shit I could be in trouble here. I asked a Spaniard (pleased to be using a language I had a basic knowledge of) where I could find my bus. However understanding the Spaniard prooved more difficult than previously expected. He kept on saying ´bajo, metro´and I kept on saying ´no, quiero áutobus, no metro´. And the conversation went round in circles. It took me two other attempts with two other people to understand that what they were referring to was an underground bus station or áutobus subterranéo. Silly me for thinking that busses ran on roads on the surface, in daylight. I managed to go back underground and once there, finding my alloted bus place was easier. It was new and modern but the time was 13.00, I was hungry, there were no food places near and the next bus out was in 50 mins. I survived those 50 mins on half of the last of the chocolate from the Channel Islands. Don´t underestimate the importance of chocs when travelling.
A phone call to the Parents on a ridiculously overpriced, supposingly easier, global simcard mobile connected me to the sain world. The bus eventually came. I told them where I wanted to go and asked to be told when we arrived as I did not know what the place looked like. That´s why I don´t like busses - it is way too easy to get stranded as did happen to me in ´The Bus Story´of 2000. But that´s for another time. The journey took 40 mins and it was a fight with my eyes to stay awake for that time. Then, the last on the bus, I got off in a quiet, dusty but established village called Valdeolmos, N.E. of Madrid. My instructions were to go into the Restaurant and ask for the location of farm where I was to spend the next month. I did so, sort of, in broken Spanish, and a presumably semi-drunk guy came out and told me where to go in Spanish, and pointed. Out of his conversation I understood Church and right. And I could see a church and a road bearing right so I was happy to set off.
However the road quickly turned into rubble track behind the church and I had absolutely no idea in which I was heading. I was meant to be able to see a windmill but for love nor money I could not make one out in the skyline. Maybe I was too tired, I was low on sugar and water and starting to panick. Being in the middle of nowhere, heading nowhere with the weather closing in on me. I trekked back, directionless to a shop and asked. A guy pointed and talked which I got nothing from and headed further down the unmarked road than before. But I stopped thinking I was heading in the worng direction as I could see no sign of life for miles so I turned back and asked at the shop again. This time the guy who had told me before took me to a high point by the church and pointed several, shouty times and I spotted a windmill. Oh thankgod I could see it I thought. Off I went down that same unmarked road only this time my eyes were fixed on that windmill. I frustratingly overshot the entrance to the farm thinking it just another road but reached the place just in time before the heavens opened.
I had arrievd in siesta time which is why I did not think it odd their being a deathly silence as I traisped past little garden patches and old bbq table and chairs, befitting the organic lifestyle I had come to learn about. A porch door was shut but I opened it and entered to the main front door. I knocked. No answer so I knocked again, louder. Nothing, so I knowcked and said `Hola´. Nothing still. Rain poured and it was enough to drag my stuff into the porch. Phone rang. Mother suggested I ask someone. There was no one to ask and the thought of going all the way back to village in rain whislt allready cold was throurally depressing. As we talked though I noticed a van drive up the side of teh farm land to the back where several huts were. The rain had eased up and I rushed out to ask teh stranger where he thought the familly was. He confirmed though that I was at the right place which was a plus but didnt know where they were and when calling them, they did not anwer.
My mother decided to try and solve the situation UK side and I sat in the porch, on my bags, cold and wet and hungry and thought - yep this is it! This is the nightmare. I´m going to be stuck here all night. This is my life now - no one, nothing, no hope. All has been lost. I had to go back into village to bar to get something to eat but my hunger had turned into sickness and it was a sturggle just to keep some food down. The bar was a feast of life and traditional with bull fighting on the 70´s TV. Being there in any other situation would have positively uplifted me but I was in no mood for anything but sleep. On returning to farm I had hoped that the note I had left for the familly in the doorway had been moved by someone returning. But no, there it was, in the same place I had left it. I waited for some time, god knows how long before my mother rang to tell me she had made contact with familly and they were now returning home. How she managaed contact and I didn´t I don´t know. Five minutes later they had arrived, host, his wife and 5 year old daughter and I was welcomed inside. A chocolate in my hand I sat with a tea and then asked if I could go to sleep. It was 5pm. It had taken me 7hrs to do a trip I now know can be done in 2 because of a miscommunication (he thought I was coming the following weekend), panick due to lack of food (I should never have skipped breakie) and little preparation.
I made an appearance in the evening to watch the end of Muriel´s Wedding in Spanish (shame as the beauty of that film is really the glorious Aussie accents) before retiring for good. The next day brought about the start of life on a self-sustainable farm.
I wandered around the station, lapping it and the Americans several times before finding the right directions to the subway. Below, I waited at a nice new subway station for a train to Plaza Castilla where I was to catch the 182 bus to Valdeolmost. I think I must have arrived there at 11.00am with all the wasted time at Chamartin. I followed directions for the buses until I reached a subway crossroads. To my left was a sign for ´autobus subterráneo´and to my right a sign for ´autobus terminal´. I went right as all logic pointed to a bus terminal for buses out of the city than some metrobus thing.
On reaching the surface I found I had arrived at an old, smelly bustation with very little busses passing through. I had been told that the busses left at ten to the hour so I sat in that place for just under an hour for a bus to come. A bus didnt come, I had been waiting 2 hours when I thought. shit I could be in trouble here. I asked a Spaniard (pleased to be using a language I had a basic knowledge of) where I could find my bus. However understanding the Spaniard prooved more difficult than previously expected. He kept on saying ´bajo, metro´and I kept on saying ´no, quiero áutobus, no metro´. And the conversation went round in circles. It took me two other attempts with two other people to understand that what they were referring to was an underground bus station or áutobus subterranéo. Silly me for thinking that busses ran on roads on the surface, in daylight. I managed to go back underground and once there, finding my alloted bus place was easier. It was new and modern but the time was 13.00, I was hungry, there were no food places near and the next bus out was in 50 mins. I survived those 50 mins on half of the last of the chocolate from the Channel Islands. Don´t underestimate the importance of chocs when travelling.
A phone call to the Parents on a ridiculously overpriced, supposingly easier, global simcard mobile connected me to the sain world. The bus eventually came. I told them where I wanted to go and asked to be told when we arrived as I did not know what the place looked like. That´s why I don´t like busses - it is way too easy to get stranded as did happen to me in ´The Bus Story´of 2000. But that´s for another time. The journey took 40 mins and it was a fight with my eyes to stay awake for that time. Then, the last on the bus, I got off in a quiet, dusty but established village called Valdeolmos, N.E. of Madrid. My instructions were to go into the Restaurant and ask for the location of farm where I was to spend the next month. I did so, sort of, in broken Spanish, and a presumably semi-drunk guy came out and told me where to go in Spanish, and pointed. Out of his conversation I understood Church and right. And I could see a church and a road bearing right so I was happy to set off.
However the road quickly turned into rubble track behind the church and I had absolutely no idea in which I was heading. I was meant to be able to see a windmill but for love nor money I could not make one out in the skyline. Maybe I was too tired, I was low on sugar and water and starting to panick. Being in the middle of nowhere, heading nowhere with the weather closing in on me. I trekked back, directionless to a shop and asked. A guy pointed and talked which I got nothing from and headed further down the unmarked road than before. But I stopped thinking I was heading in the worng direction as I could see no sign of life for miles so I turned back and asked at the shop again. This time the guy who had told me before took me to a high point by the church and pointed several, shouty times and I spotted a windmill. Oh thankgod I could see it I thought. Off I went down that same unmarked road only this time my eyes were fixed on that windmill. I frustratingly overshot the entrance to the farm thinking it just another road but reached the place just in time before the heavens opened.
I had arrievd in siesta time which is why I did not think it odd their being a deathly silence as I traisped past little garden patches and old bbq table and chairs, befitting the organic lifestyle I had come to learn about. A porch door was shut but I opened it and entered to the main front door. I knocked. No answer so I knocked again, louder. Nothing, so I knowcked and said `Hola´. Nothing still. Rain poured and it was enough to drag my stuff into the porch. Phone rang. Mother suggested I ask someone. There was no one to ask and the thought of going all the way back to village in rain whislt allready cold was throurally depressing. As we talked though I noticed a van drive up the side of teh farm land to the back where several huts were. The rain had eased up and I rushed out to ask teh stranger where he thought the familly was. He confirmed though that I was at the right place which was a plus but didnt know where they were and when calling them, they did not anwer.
My mother decided to try and solve the situation UK side and I sat in the porch, on my bags, cold and wet and hungry and thought - yep this is it! This is the nightmare. I´m going to be stuck here all night. This is my life now - no one, nothing, no hope. All has been lost. I had to go back into village to bar to get something to eat but my hunger had turned into sickness and it was a sturggle just to keep some food down. The bar was a feast of life and traditional with bull fighting on the 70´s TV. Being there in any other situation would have positively uplifted me but I was in no mood for anything but sleep. On returning to farm I had hoped that the note I had left for the familly in the doorway had been moved by someone returning. But no, there it was, in the same place I had left it. I waited for some time, god knows how long before my mother rang to tell me she had made contact with familly and they were now returning home. How she managaed contact and I didn´t I don´t know. Five minutes later they had arrived, host, his wife and 5 year old daughter and I was welcomed inside. A chocolate in my hand I sat with a tea and then asked if I could go to sleep. It was 5pm. It had taken me 7hrs to do a trip I now know can be done in 2 because of a miscommunication (he thought I was coming the following weekend), panick due to lack of food (I should never have skipped breakie) and little preparation.
I made an appearance in the evening to watch the end of Muriel´s Wedding in Spanish (shame as the beauty of that film is really the glorious Aussie accents) before retiring for good. The next day brought about the start of life on a self-sustainable farm.
Happy Mother´s Day from Spain
Ok, so Sark was a very long time ago. I left Guernsey in the mist of drizzle that covered the Channel Islands at the end of March on board a Seacat bound for St Malo, France. A crossing which was earlier than planned and just as well too because when I arrived in France, with my home on my back, I though what a good idea it would be to walk, without map, in cloudy sky, to the train station from Ferry terminal. Hint - don´t walk without waterproofs within easy access because as soon as I disembarked, the french heavens opened, the wind howled and I was unwelcome in this foreign land.
Took me a painful 2 hours with sweating breaks in my ski jacket as the only protection from the weather. Note to self - don´t ask for directions in broken french by starting off conversation with a misstitle to a lady, this is insult apparently. The french don´t like me. They don´t understand why I can´t speak their language - maybe they should have met my french teachers. Or maybe they should start spelling their words with letters that one actually pronounces.
Yes I found the tran station, I waited, cold and shivering from my exercise, back aching, on the platform. I held my ticket, ready to stamp on platform (do this or be fined) before boarding my train. I prefer train travel. It takes you through the countryside, you can see landscape changing, it takes you to a named destination unlike the bus. The train I got on was for Rennes. It was comfortable, clean and modern. Far more than I can say for British trains. Rennes was big. A quick hour was waited before I got on my rush-hour train to Paris Monteparsse.
Paris was bigger. The taxi line was long. A girl asked to share one to the airport but I was going in a different direction. I didn´t know which direction but I named a place and she was native and knew it was no where near. I wished I knew. The taxi driver didn´t understand where I wanted to go. I resorted to pointing of words on a printed confirmation of a hostel place and he drove off, muttering french things under his french breath.
I arrived outside a hostel that I recognised from the pictures. Lugged my stuff in and told to wait a while by the reception staff. After a while I went up again, showed my reservation, paid and got given a key. Some intructions were told to me, off which I understood that breakfast was between 7 and 9am. I went up to my room byt tight, curling, steep stairs with intention to sleep. God I needed to sleep, I was knackered and had survived on sandwiches I had bought in Guernsey. My sleep was interupted by a Chinese girl asking for the key. Apprently there was only one and I needed to hand it back in.
My train to Madrid was a night one, the following day and meant I could enjoy being a tourist in the city. Except I don´t enjoy being a tourist. I´ve never enjoyed being one. You can always tell who they are, they always wear baseball caps and carry a rucksack on their front. They never belong to where they are visiting and merely look in on a show put on by the government of the relevant country. I have been to Paris countless times with different company, familly, school, summercamps and each time we have done the same, tedious touristic things. My interests lie in the social culture of a country, however I am always slightly put off by the langauge of the country. I don´t even find the spoken language beautiful in any way. The only time I´ve ever found Paris and France attractive is when I´ve watched ´Amelie´or ´Chocolat´.
But in Guernsey I had read up (thanks to Mel´s parents wonderfully extensive travel book collection) and had found an area of Paris I wanted to visit. Well I just wanted to take a walk heading for the River, I always head for the water whereever I visit. Walking through districts from the north of the river where I was staying, I came accross a demonstration for Disabled people, the only event that seemed to be interesting that day. I made it to river, sat and wrote, thankful that the sun was shining then. On a postcard - it was a picture of loveliness, book stalls lined the river, tall narrow buildings housing flats and a shop below sat back and were bathed in the fresh early spring light. And for a short while, I too enjoyed the Parisian atmosphere. I made a promise to myself then that if ever I was to come back to that capital it would be with artists who had invited me or friends who could speak French.
Paris, admittedly, a city of fine food, of lovely bars, restaurants, true cafe culture and where did I head for lunch? Where I always go when I´m in Paris - McDonalds. I was a dirty tourist whore then. But I didn´t have much money and I didn´t have the urge to try a bar. Heading back to the Youth Hostel, I passed through the square where the demonstration was before, empty and littered with the empty packets of snacks the partakers and onlookers had ingested. I stopped here again as it was still early afternoon and my train wasn´t untill 7pm. I read a while and then continued back to the hostel. Once there, there was nothing really for me to do except check up on Facebook and email the parentals to tell them everything was fine. Everyone was still out on their daily excusrions, checking out the museums, shopping, hanging out with their friends. I sat and read a magazine I had brought with me from Guernsey. ´Living ETC´is a favourite interior mag of mine, showcasing modern living at it´s best. But unfortunately I have been reading it for too long now as the houses they show no longer interest me - they are all arranged the same and everyone has that bloody Barcelona chair either in black or white in their sitting room. Just like Country Living, with their continuous love of stripped painted wood, you can only really subscribe to the magazine for 2 years at the most.
I got the receptionist to ring a taxi for me at 5:30pm, entirely bored of waiting. I hoped that I had enough money in notes on me to get me to the station. Thankfully I did and was pleased to see that there was no real hike to my trenhotel. Finding the right platform I managed to bypass a class trip and got on the train. I got on it - but I didn´t get very far. Having a backpack widens your body and lessns your capabilites of movement. THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU NEED ON THE TRENHOTEL. The corridoor is very slim, slimline is key. It took me five mins to navigate a metre section of it. So frustrating. I entered my cabin and met two American college girls who were studying in Salamanca until May. They had been doing Europe on their spring break for the past 2 weeks. It was nice to exchange stories and advice - my first 'meet the fellow traveller' experience which ended in the familiar Facebook contact exchange.
Passports were taken as we set off, we were intructed that we would recieve a fourth girl at another stop which worried me as her seat was currently occupied by my rucksack as the ONLY place it could fit. Beds were turned down at 9pm. This is a process of seats being folded down and overhead bunks being folded down. I started to wish myself and my luggage were so easilly foldable. On board is a complementary kit of water, toothbursh, toothpaste and soap to use over the foldable sink. All of us embarked on getting ready for bed. I climbed to my top bunk and waited with all my bags for some floor space to clear so that I may start the changing process. Hint - wear a skirt, girls, to easilly slip on pyjammas. I managed to haul my backpack onto an overhead (again slim) luggage space and keep the rest of my stuff at my feet. Sliding into bed, the movement of the train soon rocked me to sleep.
Took me a painful 2 hours with sweating breaks in my ski jacket as the only protection from the weather. Note to self - don´t ask for directions in broken french by starting off conversation with a misstitle to a lady, this is insult apparently. The french don´t like me. They don´t understand why I can´t speak their language - maybe they should have met my french teachers. Or maybe they should start spelling their words with letters that one actually pronounces.
Yes I found the tran station, I waited, cold and shivering from my exercise, back aching, on the platform. I held my ticket, ready to stamp on platform (do this or be fined) before boarding my train. I prefer train travel. It takes you through the countryside, you can see landscape changing, it takes you to a named destination unlike the bus. The train I got on was for Rennes. It was comfortable, clean and modern. Far more than I can say for British trains. Rennes was big. A quick hour was waited before I got on my rush-hour train to Paris Monteparsse.
Paris was bigger. The taxi line was long. A girl asked to share one to the airport but I was going in a different direction. I didn´t know which direction but I named a place and she was native and knew it was no where near. I wished I knew. The taxi driver didn´t understand where I wanted to go. I resorted to pointing of words on a printed confirmation of a hostel place and he drove off, muttering french things under his french breath.
I arrived outside a hostel that I recognised from the pictures. Lugged my stuff in and told to wait a while by the reception staff. After a while I went up again, showed my reservation, paid and got given a key. Some intructions were told to me, off which I understood that breakfast was between 7 and 9am. I went up to my room byt tight, curling, steep stairs with intention to sleep. God I needed to sleep, I was knackered and had survived on sandwiches I had bought in Guernsey. My sleep was interupted by a Chinese girl asking for the key. Apprently there was only one and I needed to hand it back in.
My train to Madrid was a night one, the following day and meant I could enjoy being a tourist in the city. Except I don´t enjoy being a tourist. I´ve never enjoyed being one. You can always tell who they are, they always wear baseball caps and carry a rucksack on their front. They never belong to where they are visiting and merely look in on a show put on by the government of the relevant country. I have been to Paris countless times with different company, familly, school, summercamps and each time we have done the same, tedious touristic things. My interests lie in the social culture of a country, however I am always slightly put off by the langauge of the country. I don´t even find the spoken language beautiful in any way. The only time I´ve ever found Paris and France attractive is when I´ve watched ´Amelie´or ´Chocolat´.
But in Guernsey I had read up (thanks to Mel´s parents wonderfully extensive travel book collection) and had found an area of Paris I wanted to visit. Well I just wanted to take a walk heading for the River, I always head for the water whereever I visit. Walking through districts from the north of the river where I was staying, I came accross a demonstration for Disabled people, the only event that seemed to be interesting that day. I made it to river, sat and wrote, thankful that the sun was shining then. On a postcard - it was a picture of loveliness, book stalls lined the river, tall narrow buildings housing flats and a shop below sat back and were bathed in the fresh early spring light. And for a short while, I too enjoyed the Parisian atmosphere. I made a promise to myself then that if ever I was to come back to that capital it would be with artists who had invited me or friends who could speak French.
Paris, admittedly, a city of fine food, of lovely bars, restaurants, true cafe culture and where did I head for lunch? Where I always go when I´m in Paris - McDonalds. I was a dirty tourist whore then. But I didn´t have much money and I didn´t have the urge to try a bar. Heading back to the Youth Hostel, I passed through the square where the demonstration was before, empty and littered with the empty packets of snacks the partakers and onlookers had ingested. I stopped here again as it was still early afternoon and my train wasn´t untill 7pm. I read a while and then continued back to the hostel. Once there, there was nothing really for me to do except check up on Facebook and email the parentals to tell them everything was fine. Everyone was still out on their daily excusrions, checking out the museums, shopping, hanging out with their friends. I sat and read a magazine I had brought with me from Guernsey. ´Living ETC´is a favourite interior mag of mine, showcasing modern living at it´s best. But unfortunately I have been reading it for too long now as the houses they show no longer interest me - they are all arranged the same and everyone has that bloody Barcelona chair either in black or white in their sitting room. Just like Country Living, with their continuous love of stripped painted wood, you can only really subscribe to the magazine for 2 years at the most.
I got the receptionist to ring a taxi for me at 5:30pm, entirely bored of waiting. I hoped that I had enough money in notes on me to get me to the station. Thankfully I did and was pleased to see that there was no real hike to my trenhotel. Finding the right platform I managed to bypass a class trip and got on the train. I got on it - but I didn´t get very far. Having a backpack widens your body and lessns your capabilites of movement. THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU NEED ON THE TRENHOTEL. The corridoor is very slim, slimline is key. It took me five mins to navigate a metre section of it. So frustrating. I entered my cabin and met two American college girls who were studying in Salamanca until May. They had been doing Europe on their spring break for the past 2 weeks. It was nice to exchange stories and advice - my first 'meet the fellow traveller' experience which ended in the familiar Facebook contact exchange.
Passports were taken as we set off, we were intructed that we would recieve a fourth girl at another stop which worried me as her seat was currently occupied by my rucksack as the ONLY place it could fit. Beds were turned down at 9pm. This is a process of seats being folded down and overhead bunks being folded down. I started to wish myself and my luggage were so easilly foldable. On board is a complementary kit of water, toothbursh, toothpaste and soap to use over the foldable sink. All of us embarked on getting ready for bed. I climbed to my top bunk and waited with all my bags for some floor space to clear so that I may start the changing process. Hint - wear a skirt, girls, to easilly slip on pyjammas. I managed to haul my backpack onto an overhead (again slim) luggage space and keep the rest of my stuff at my feet. Sliding into bed, the movement of the train soon rocked me to sleep.
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