A small scale environmental disaster

In the olden days fields in Alicante were irrigated by flooding them with water. Tanks, depositos, were dotted all over the countryside to collect rainwater and some were filled by pumping water from wells. We have a deposito in our garden but, long before we got here, the former owners had painted the inside with that turquoise blue paint and turned it into a splash pool. Bigger than a paddling pool but much less grand than a swimming pool. Some 5575 gallons or 22.3 cubic metres of water.

Most summers we've filled it up but, being basically a big bucket, it soon started to fill with leaves and dust. Maggie wanted something better and when the legislation changed to say that people should not pour gallons of water into depositos which could not be recycled we no longer had the choice.

This summer Maggie finally did something. We had someone install a pump and filter. As luck would have it one of the inlet or outlet junctions at the very bottom of the pool isn't watertight and water is dribbling out. We decided the leak wasn't significant and went ahead with the filling. Last night the deposito was finally full. This morning the water level had dropped 30cms. Inspecting the tank now there are damp patches around a lot of the base. My guess is that, as well as the leak from the new pipework the drilling, to fit the various inlets and outlets, has weakened the structure of the tank and it is no longer watertight.

Literally money down the drain.

Down the village on a warm summer's evening

20€ a year to join the Village Association. A bargain. Subsidised meals, sometimes a trip and the always enjoyable AGM where nothing gets done and nothing is resolved.

This is the best though. The meal the weekend before the Fiesta. The food is sometimes good and sometimes ordinary. Sometimes I feel to be a part of what's going on and sometimes I feel like an outsider. But whatever happens, for me, it is the quintessential image of summer in the village. Much more intimate than the Fiestas, so much more Spanish than the November meal

The neighbours are there. It's warm. The lights are strung up from the village hall. There is hubbub as everyone talks and laughs and drinks and eats and comes and goes. A little oasis of people enveloped by the dark summer evening.

Even when I don't enjoy it I appreciate it and last night I did both.

Gainfully employed

According to three people I've spoken to this week Murcia is now the seventh largest city in Spain. That's not what it says on Wikipedia or almost any other Internet source I can find (9th or 10th) but it's nice to know that Murcianos are proud enough of their city to want to bump it up the league a couple of spots.

Culebrón is 58.6kms from Murcia yet I don't really know the city that well. I've seen the Cathedral scores of times, visited a few museums etc. but I still let the Tom Tom guide me in and I pay to park. So, when I decided to book up a weeks worth of residential Spanish course Murcia seemed like a good choice. Near enough to be cheap travelling and yet still largely undiscovered, by me at least.

The plan was a school with five lessons a day of Spanish tuition and also to stay with a Spanish host family for a week. I had this vague notion of me sitting, Homer like, on the couch, bottle of beer in hand as the host family and I guffawed along with something on the telly after a hard day of internalising compound conditionals. It didn't work quite like that but it was surprisingly close.

For a start María Ángles doesn't watch much TV. She seems to get her news form the radio and the normal sound as I crossed the threshold was Classical music. The rest of it hasn't been that Homerish either - Mediterranean cuisine and hardly any alcohol at all. The best bit was that I did get to speak and trying to explain about Lingula, the brachiopod, or my views on some Spanish authors, in Spanish, has been exactly the sort of thing I wanted to try to do.

The school, Instituto Hispánico de Murcia, has been good too. It would be easy to start a list of things I would have preferred to be slightly different but the truth is I got the package as described, the teachers were pleasant and skillful and I've probably spoken about half of the Spanish I've spoken all year in their classrooms or with Mª Ángeles over the past week. The cultural programme hasn't been that good so I haven't picked up as much about Murcia as I might have hoped but I don't want to nit pick and I did drive out of town without Tom's help so I must have learned something.

Spanishness

I fancied a museum this afternoon so I checked the opening times of a couple of places on the Internet and set off to have a look. My official city map was a few hundred metres out in its placement of the first gallery on my list but I finally sweated and cursed my way there.

It was closed.

There was an opening hours notice on the right of the main doors. Opening time was 6pm, not the same as the 5pm on the Internet. It was only 6.15pm so I waited a while. Then I saw a notice on the left hand side of the door, not for the gallery, but for the archive, which said that it was closed after mid June in the afternoons. I put two and two together and headed off for another gallery which I'd come across whilst wandering lost. It wasn't on the map but it was open. It was an awful exhibition.

Off to the second gallery on my Internet list. The location was as marked on the map. I could see the security guard talking to someone as I approached the big glass doors. I went inside. "The Museum's closed in the afternoons," said the guard.

I went to the pictures instead and saw a Cameron Diaz film.

Starting and finishing

Many years ago, as tourists in Havana, we were shown the Cuban "kilometre zero" - the point from which all distances to and from Havana are measured. I remember being treated as an idiot when I asked how you would know where the other end of the line would be. Maggie added her scorn to that of the guide.

True enough you can measure to a point form any other point but where do you measure from? The roadsigns say, for instance, 70 miles to London but to where in London? - Westminster Abbey maybe - and if so the door or the altar - or it could be Buckingham Palace or, perhaps, The House of Commons. Apparently, in London, it's to the statue of King Charles I on the South side of Trafalgar Square.

In Madrid it's very obvious. Tourists queue to have their pictures taken standing on or near the Km0 point in the Puerta del Sol. And, yesterday, in Murcia I was shown the point to which all distances to and from Murcia are measured.

So, Cuban tourist guide, I can work out how far it is from London, Murcia or Madrid to Havana but can you tell me how far it is to Culebrón from Havana if you're so smart?

I'm shocked

I think it was in 2008 when the roof of our house collapsed. It was an expensive faff getting it fixed but, eventually, it was all done. The architect signed off the work and the planning office stamped it. But there was one last step to go.

We asked a pal to keep pestering the planning office to do that last final inspection but around 15 months later still no result. Being back in Culebrón for the summer and able to go to the office when it's open I popped in yesterday and talked to them.

I'll be down at 10.30 said the man. It's closing in on noon now. I am surprised.

Desestimado

I quite approve of taxes. We all pay in, we all get more out. I know it's not a popular view.

Our local taxes in Spain are based on services, at least some of them are, so much for water, so much for rubbish collection etc. So the system isn't for the general good it's a specific charge. Back in December we got a bill for drainage but we don't have drainage so I appealed the charge. I didn't get a reply so, being away from work and having time we drove the 25kms to the tax collection office to ask what was happening about the appeal. Whilst we were there I also wanted to get a digital certificate to allow me to access the Virtual Offices of several quasi governmental organisations.

No chance with the certificate said the woman, no Internet today. Go to the Town Hall to get one. And the drains, we still haven't got a reply? She dug around in her computer, ah, yes, appeal denied. I was a bit cross not because of the charge so much but because of the woman's blasé attitude in an office where the customer service is usually good. I think I was caustic, the Spanish certainly seemed to flow, if not my body language made the message clear anyway.

We went to the Town Hall. The digital certificate woman was friendly, informative and efficient, ten minutes from start to finish. Now I wonder if it will work?

Así es

Someone recommended a book to me but, as it had been written at the turn of the 19th Century, and as it wasn't one book but a whole series I decided that the library was the best option.

My library card had expired so I expected to have to re-enrol. I took a new photo and all the documentation I thought may be necessary, sheaves of the stuff. Well, actually, I forgot the library card on the kitchen table at home!

"You may think your card has expired but it's not quite true we just keep renewing them," said the librarian. I asked if I could borrow a book as I didn't have the card - "No problem" she said. We dug out the book I wanted. The binding and typeface were very 19th Century. The librarian was sure she had a more modern version but the only one she found was a reference book - not for loan. "Don't worry" she said "We can jump that little rule." She wrote the return date on a Post It, in pencil, and stuck it over the reference only sticker. The return date is during the town's fiestas so I asked about returning the book. "Don't worry," she said, "a few days over won't hurt:"

Large library book under my arm I went to the local driving school to ask them to exchange my UK driving licence for a Spanish one. It's about time. The process was fast, efficient and reasonably expensive (75€.) "How long do you think it will take?" I asked "Well, it's summer, don't expect too much to happen before September," said the man.

And the sun's shining, and I'm on holiday - what more could one soul ask for?

Dichotomy

Sometimes it crosses my mind that I live a strange life here.

Being British I behave like a Brit. I turn up to places on time, I like written information, I don't queue jump and I eat food from every corner of the globe.

I try my best to live an ordinary immigrant life. I keep up with the news, I pay taxes and I vote. I don't speak Spanish much though as I'm paid to speak English and, obviously enough, Maggie and I speak to each other in English. You don't get to practise a lot of Spanish at the supermarket or buying a newspaper and the truth is I'm a bit unsociable anyway trying to avoid small talk in any language.

When I'm with Brits I'm often accused of having gone native. Being only vaguely interested in the news from "back home" or what's just happened on the X Factor is regarded as a venal sin. What do I care about David Cameron's posturings or whether it's a bank holiday? Those things affect me no more and no less than Berlusconi's pronouncements or Bastille day. Not always wanting to go to the quiz or for a roast on Sunday at one of the several expat bars is tantamount to treason.

When I'm with Spaniards they think of me as being as British as pea soupers in London. Lots of Spaniards are remarkably ill informed and firmly believe that fog and high tea are British realities. When I ask about culture, politics or social customs I'm never quite sure whether the simplistic answers I get are because they class me along with the inquisitive five year olds or because simplistic is what they have. I can't recount the number of times I've being asked if I've ever eaten paella. Being spoken to as though I were stupid is a far too common an occurrence.

When I'm in mixed Spanish and British company the Spaniards will corral we Brits into the same corner so that we can talk about dear old Blighty. It never crosses their mind that for many of us Spain is now our one and only home. Spain is where I go to the doctor, get my hair cut, buy bread and tax my car. It's also a place I chose to live and a culture I like and enjoy.

The truth is that I am adrift - no that isn't right - it's more that I'm not quite anchored. Caught between two existences and a bit at a loss in either. My links with the UK are pretty tenuous nowadays and my links with Spain are pretty shaky too. It's the language of course. Brits think I speak good Spanish whilst the Spanish think I'm a gibbering, incomprehensible fool. The quizzical look on the shopkeeper's face as I ask for a juicer. The sheer terror of making a phone call.

Yes, definitely strange

Shopping therapy

IKEA isn't really my idea of fun but every now and again Maggie feels the urge to make changes to the house and we go. We nearly always argue when we're there. I am persuaded of the need for shelves or cupboards or whatever but I don't understand browsing the sofas and desks and wardrobes and breadboards and glasses and clocks and picture frames. I always surrender though and succumb to scissors or shower curtains as well as what I went to buy. Maggie usually goes for blankets and candles.

We went today. As we wandered the aisles we bumped into one of my English students out shopping with her husband. They'd travelled to Murcia from Cartagena to buy capsules for their Nespresso machine and popped into IKEA to compound the fun. Then it was one of Maggie's work colleagues and her husband. They'd driven the 50kms to buy a picture frame. 

We were there for bookshelves. We made an error. We took a car with 1.5 metres of carrying space to buy 2 metre shelves. IKEA compounded the fiasco by having a power problem which knocked out their tills. We abandoned our compensatory purchases of scissors, blankets, toilet brush, shower curtain and candle lantern near the unmoving till queue and left empty handed.

Modern times in Western Europe eh?

Coals to Newcastle

The school is in a prime
 city centre location handy
for the sweet shop,
bars and  restaurants

You're going where? In high summer? You must be bonkers - it'll be like an oven! That's been the general drift of the conversation when I've explain to any Spanish chums that I'm intending to spend a week in Murcia city doing a 25 hour Spanish course and living with a host family for a week.

They also find it difficult to understand. You do live in Spain, don't you? Nearly all Spaniards firmly believe that a few months in an English speaking country will turn them into polished and fluent English speakers. If that's the case why hasn't it worked for me the other way around?

The reason is twofold, the first and most important is that I am so terrified to speak that I avoid doing so if at all possible. The other reason is that I hardly ever get the opportunity to speak Spanish. They pay me at work to speak English, Maggie and I speak in English and you don't get a lot of language practice buying a beer or getting the supermarket shopping done.

So, in a few days the Instituto Hispánico de Murcia and Maria Angeles (my host) will get the pleasure of my company. We were in Murcia today signing paper so we went to see where it was.

Who knows, maybe I'll have to speak a bit of Spanish?