The red dogs' Spanish holiday

Whilst the Engelas were frolicking around South Africa, our red dogs seemingly had a wonderful Spanish holiday with a English family who proceeded to spoil the red dogs rotten. I seriously doubt that the red dogs will want to come back to Casa Engela anytime soon, due to a couple of reasons:

They got to sleep on COUCHES – not silly little pillows! (Even if those pillows were imported from South Africa at some costs I may tell you)

They got to play in the snow (well the one did, the youngest apparently in true younger dog style growled at their hosts when they tried to convince her to go outside. Somehow that dog has not clicked that too growl at the hand that feeds you is a pointless exercise)

They got to eat bones!

They got to play in a pack and make friends.

So the purpose of today’s blog is to say thank you to the family who loved and took care of our dogs, we are so thankful to you, however, a word of warning – should they not want to stay in Casa Engela, we will send them back to the greatest dog hotel in the world!

PS I take no credit for these photos, the family who took care of the red dogs should get all the credit!

Greetings earthlings

No, contrary to popular belief I have not been abducted by aliens. Nor have I elected not to proceed with my blog. Nor have I disappeared into deep dark Africa. I have been what you would call “busy”. You know, getting on with life in this crazy Spanish city and planning, executing and enjoying a long holiday in my home country, South Africa.

Yes, it is possible that someone who only teaches part time, walks with her dogs and now has a once a week ironing and cleaning lady (she is known as “the goddess” in the Engela household, I think if she quit, we would move back to South Africa), can be too busy to blog. Oh the horror.

So, after an excessive amount of partying, enjoying a couple of drinks (they have such lovely white wines in South Africa, I had to try them all!), spending time with our families and friends, attending my sister’s amazing wedding, and then eating enough braaivleis to sustain at least two poor African countries, I am back to my host country.

I must admit I was quite worried that I would not be able to get on the aeroplane back to Madrid – I had visions of the hostesses having to drag me into the aeroplane kicking and screaming. I could have been a front page story in the Rapport or Sunday Times! Alas, my good upbringing kicked in and whilst swallowing down the lump in my throat, I had to smile when the first air hostess to greet me was a lovely Spanish lady from Madrid, who then proceeded to, the whole flight to Dubai, slip me little Emirates gifts, just because I spoke to her in my broken Spanish. Karma I tell you.

So now, the Engelas are back. At this very moment I am staring down the horror of having been on such a long holiday and having to sort out the tip that we created by just dumping bags, gifts and dirty washing. I think I am losing the competition and will have to eventually start tiding up.

I have to say that there are a couple of things that I have realised I miss about my home country, such as the ability to walk into a shop and explain exactly what I want, without sounding like to daft idiot. This has however motivated me even more to learn to speak Spanish fluently, I am tired of sounding like a fool. I forgot how much I love South African white wine. If I elaborate, I will sound like an alcoholic. I again realised how much we love our families and friends and understand now how blessed we are to have them in our lives. I am also thankful that we have made friends in Madrid, I think we would have been manic obsessive crazies without them. I also love the South African sunsets, it is unlike any other sunset I have seen.

So, my conclusion is that I will always be a South African, wherever I am in the world, but that being South African for me also means that we can make a life somewhere else, and be happy, but always be thankful for who we are and where we come from.

Torture Spanish style

My first official Spanish class took place last week. Now, to be fair, I had a couple of more informal lessons from a lovely lady who now counts as a friend, however, now being (informally and illegally) employed as an English teacher, I get a perk of free Spanish classes.

Now, I was very clear on becoming "employed" by the School I work at, about my extremely limited Spanish ability – and that I needed beginners classes. I assumed in the all the various dialects and accents of English, that beginners mean exactly what it says, beginner. Clearly, I was wrong.

I attend a class with a French man and a Russian lady, both of whom can speak Spanish it seems, since they know all the 100000000 verb forms and the tenses, and they understand the whole masculine and feminine thing (every single noun is either male or female, and, it seems, verbs change depending which it is). So there I sit in my class, and the only feeling I can relate it to, was a couple of Law exams many moons ago, where I swore I studied a text book, but that the lecturer drew the examination paper from another text book that I never saw before. You know the feeling. Panic....and then...blank.

Then, to top it off, the teacher insists we speak only Spanish in the class. I in principle agree with this proposal, however, to speak Spanish when I have no idea what someone is saying to me, just defeats the purpose. Then to ask me a question in Spanish, and expect an answer in Spanish, is just torture. Of course I am then struck dumb and have no idea how to even say that I don’t understand. I can see why the Spaniards were such scary warriors...their teachers are pretty damn frightening.

As such, I am convinced I am the worst student in the world, that the teacher knows I have no bloody idea what she is saying (the blank look must be an indication), but if I have learnt anything in my studies and life, it is that you can prove yourself and other people wrong. So my motto for this learning Spanish thing is to give it horns and just do it. What else am I supposed to do?

Spanish mothers, and yes, I am a pushover

I explained previously that in my home country, I practised as an attorney, for a number of years.

Now, due to fact that for some unbeknownst reason the Spanish government has decided I am not allowed to work (formally), I work illegally since I have a skill that seems to be rare in my host country, namely that I can (allegedly) speak English, and as such, I am a teacher. You can spot the irony here.

In any event, I now teach children and adults alike the art of speaking and writing English.

Today I had the privilege of talking to a Spanish mother, and due to the nature of this discussion I thought it prudent to share same:

1.    Her nine year old daughter is in my class. Lovely girl, very sweet and eager, she does all her written work perfectly, but she is so shy, she refuses to talk. Fine, I was once upon a time an introvert, so I can relate. I believe positive reinforcement makes a tremendous difference and as such, I don’t demand that a shy child part take in class. Clearly I am wrong in this thought.

2.    Her daughter’s marks in English improved from the equivalent of 50% to 90% since I have been teaching her. Yes, I can boast about something.

3.    However, her daughter’s own full time teacher (who is also the child’s formal English teacher), told the mother that she must talk to me, because the little girl does not talk enough. I must “make” her speak to me in English.

Right. I stand and listen to this and would like to tell the mother the following (in English, of course):

1.       You daughter is an introvert. Deal with it.

2.       I am supposed to teach a “fun” English class. “Making” someone talk hardly falls in the category of “fun” in my view.

3.       I am not the child’s formal English teacher, she has one, and surely this teacher can also “make the child talk”.

4.       I could sit on her child and make her speak English, I think however such behaviour could have serious repercussions for me.

5.       On any given day, I have a group of approximately fifteen screaming (Spanish speaking) nine year olds for one hour in my class. This hour is normally spent as follows:

Ø  I have to ensure that I don’t kill the children;

Ø  I have to ensure that they don’t kill one another;

Ø  I have to ensure that they do not all go to the bathroom all at the same time, which they of course do want to do, ten times during one class;

Ø  I have to deal with this mob who for some reason every Monday, or in fact any day that ends with a - y -, has lost their ability to speak, read, understand, comprehend or listen to English;

Ø  I have to encourage them to take less than one hour to settle down, got to the bathroom, take out their books (which they for some reason almost always forget), look at the board and start their exercises;

Ø  I have to, during each and every class, explain that “he is for a man”, and “she a woman”. One would think this explanation would, after the one hundredth time, stick. Indeed not;

Ø  I have to translate each word and sentence;

Ø  I have to encourage, beg and threaten certain children to just complete the exercises (of which the answers are written on the black board I might add); and

Ø  I have to prevent children from climbing out of windows, kicking a soccer ball, throwing scissors, pens, pencils and the like.

As such, my time to ensure a shy little girl who out of her own does not want to speak English, or Spanish as far as I can gather, talks in class.

I am however incapable of saying any of the above to the mother, due to the fact that not only is my Spanish so limited, but, further, when her daughter then runs to me, gives me a hug and says she loves English, I think, all right, take a deep breath, and just…smile and nod.

Winter? Where?

As I write the title to this blog, I am sure that the snow gods are going to come after us with vengeance. Be that as it may, I shall continue writing my blog, one hand firmly touching wood.

I was waiting in breathless anticipation for our first white Christmas. Alas, no luck, we have only been blessed with a freezing wind. I am however extremely happy to report that the sun shines every day, which makes the cold more bearable.

As such, I am completely confused by the winter weather in Madrid. Thus far, it is very similar to winter in Johannesburg: blood curling cold at night and in the early morning (with the only difference that everything freezes outside, including our cars, and in light of our central heating, which I think is the best thing mankind ever thought of for winter in Europe, I am completely in love with our house), and chilly, but sunny afternoons. I have learnt the use of an ice scraper, and yes, I have broken one already.

I am even able to go for my daily walks with the red dogs, however, the playing field has levelled somewhat – the red dogs still launch a full scale attack to ensure that I get irritated enough to take them for a walk, however, the moment they step outside from our warm little casa, the ice bear winds whirls around them, their breath comes as white misty gasps, and they then attempt to re-enter our house. I am then off course the wicked witch of Madrid, and with an evil grin proceed to make them walk for at least an hour. I am however the creator of my own misfortune, since after this bone chilling walk, I have to sit in a scalding bath for at least half an hour in order to thaw my frozen body parts, since in order to walk around properly, I need to feel my limbs.

I have however been told that the winter in Madrid is usually very bad in January, February and March. I pray this is merely a rumour, since I can cope with this weather for a while still, however, I suspect I will not be so lucky.

As such, I am thankful for that our first winter in Madrid has been mild thus far. I pray that it will always be like this. Further, I am very happy that we are not camping during this time; I would have been one very unhappy camping buddy.

Now, how to appease the snow gods to have this sunny winter continue…of course they speak Spanish, so I may just cause a blizzard should I attempt to communicate with them….

Happy New Year (Spanish style...)

The Engelas celebrated their first New Year with friends we met here. Yes, we have friends, not all people in Spain are Spanish, thank the Lord, otherwise we would have serious trouble meeting people. And as such, we experienced our first European New Year.

Now, this was such an interesting evening, so far removed from anything we previously experienced, that I thought it prudent to share some details of our night with you:

1.    NOTHING is open in Madrid on New Year’s Eve. We live (in Spanish terms) in the sticks, so no restaurants are open. I assume that in city centre it may be different, but where we live, everything closes at 5 PM. In my home country, this is completely different, if you are lucky enough to be able to book a table somewhere, and are willing to hand over half of your life savings for a dinner which would normally cost maybe R 100.00 (10 Euros for my non South African readers), then you will be able to enjoy a very festive evening. I hope. For those going to the Spur or Wimpy, good luck with that, your kids would love it, you, I suspect, not so much.

2.    Spanish people normally spend New Year’s Eve with their families. Food for thought me thinks. 

3.    Luckily, we know people, and we able to enjoy an evening at a friend’s house, making food, having Cosmopolitans and the like. 

4.    The Spanish eat 12 grapes every second before the clock strikes 12. This apparently brings luck. Now you are able to do this in Sol, the centre of Madrid, however every other Spaniard and tourist, plus their wife / husband / child / parent / brother / sister /aunt / uncle / friend of a friend of a friend and their dog were there, so unless you have an obsession with being squashed to a pulp whilst trying to swallow grapes, our recommendation is to stay at home. We did this in the safety of a friend’s house, and still, by grape eight, I understood that to chew and swallow a single grape in one second is a physical impossibility; however, we did our best. We do not want to risk no luck for 2012, so grapes it shall be.

5.    Spanish people love fireworks, and the fireworks carry on until the wee hours of the morning. Because they live on top of one another, there is very little space for the launching of these fireworks, and as such, same is launched between buildings, on rooftops, in other words, everywhere and anywhere. For a country that loves its pets so much, this is quite odd, however it may be that the Spanish pets are used to this noise. The red dogs are not. I will not dwell on this save to state that the smallest red dog has only today started eating again.

As such, we great greeted this New Year with mouths full of grapes, champagne glasses in the hand, shouting support to the fireworks, celebrating with our foreign friends in Madrid, in what I now think as the foreigner interpretation of a Spanish New Year.

Bring it on 2012, we will give it horns....Engela style!

Yes, I am a big girl … or possibly a Gigantor …

From the outset let me state that my forefathers and foremothers were not small folk. We are tall, have shoulders, breasts, a waist, hips, thighs, long legs and big feet.

In South Africa, I was a slightly tall woman, but there were many other women my size, and bigger.

According to my host country, however, I fall in the category of gigante.

It is not so bad that people point and stare, possibly because the husband is taller and bigger and he can apparently hit quite hard, but it has happened to me a number of times when I am on the metro, or anywhere where I sit, that when I stand up, that the Spanish folk step back.  I wonder (In Afrikaans of course) what the Spaniards are thinking ... that I will step on them because they are so small? That my size is contagious?

For the reader who does not know this, the Spanish women (and men) generally are not very tall, and the women are super skinny, their thighs are the width of my hand. There are not many countries that they make skinny jeans for men. If I wanted to, I could probably snap them with my one finger.

Now, normally this would not bother me at all, but with the change of seasons I have now spotted a problem: buying shoes.

Every shop I go into I have to ask if they stock my size. I had one shop assistant laugh at me (I nearly stepped on her … the little freak). The other shop assistant gaped at me with her mouth open in horror, shaking her head. I stepped on that little freak, sorry, she was so bloody tiny what is a big girl like me to do? I have no fear facing her loved ones, they will be so small, that once I stoop down to their level they will run away screaming and go hide in the hills …that’s what they do with giants.

I have, in addition hereto, established that Madrid appears to cater for all shapes and sizes, and there are shops that cater for cross dressing men, in that they can wear woman shoes. Out of sheer desperation I visited this store with a friend, and unfortunately have to report that I was not trying to buy glitterati high heeled shoes, which come in red, yellow, pink, blue and leopard print, all in one shoe. Nor were the white thigh high patent leather boots exactly up my alley.

As such, the search continues, since all shapes and sizes clearly does not mean shoes in my size. If there are any other gigantors out there with big feet, let me know where you secretly shop in Madrid, please, otherwise the small town folk shall continue to suffer.