by Jeanne Reidy

I had heard that college students in Spain are in little rush to finish their schooling. Some stay at their university for 6 or 7 years. I guess the cost is not pressuring them to finish as they pay a very small amount for classes and the vast majority live at home which saves on room and board costs.

Still, everyday, I was surprised by the fact that the cafeteria and courtyards were always more crowded than the library and computer labs. The students never seemed to be stressed about homework or tests, which could’ve been thanks to the forgiving curriculum or to the fact that they were not being hounded to finish school by their parents, teachers or loan collectors. Perhaps the difficulty of getting a job in this economy is keeping them enrolled for as long as possible. 

But what happens after the eventual graduation? Due to the limited housing in Madrid, the expense and most of all, tradition, these twenty-somethings are encouraged to live at home. They are not being forced into the work world nor do they need to as they have very little to pay for on their own with their rent, food and maybe more are paid for by their parents. So, from my understanding, most young madrileños do just that. They live at home, help out around the house and put off the work world a bit longer. Most Spanish children, if fact, live at home until close to the age of 30 or marriage- whichever comes first.

My señora’s daughter amazed me. She was an unemployed college-educated 27 year-old living with her mother. Now I understand the job market is tough right now and Spain’s unemployment rate is brutal- about double that of the United States’. However, she never seemed to be looking too hard for a job either. She seemed content living at home having her meals and laundry taken care of by her willing mother.

I always compare her to my sister of the same age. Since graduating from college, my sister has fulfilled a two year contract with a respected law firm in New York City, where she paid her own over-the-top Manhattan rent, moved back to Chicago for Law School for which she is currently searching for a job to pay for her looming loans. Now, I don’t say this to look down upon the madrileño and pat the American on the back. I just find the cultural differences fascinating. And who is to say which way is the “right” way.

One of my teachers at the Complutense said in regards to this topic that even though Spanish parents complain about their older children living at home, “we have created this problem”. The “problem” being that the kids live at home much longer than usual. He explained that parents actually prefer it so they can monitor their children and not worry about them living on their own. I understand this point of view, but I doubt most American parents would feel the same way.

I recently read an article in El Pais, a Spanish newspaper, that identified this age group, ages 18 to 34, as “Generación Ni-Ni”, a generation that “ni trabaja ni estudia”, neither works nor studies. Basically, the article explained that with a growing number of graduates who aren’t finding jobs, a new generation has been born. At the same time, this is a group of people who have grown up in a time that has always experienced and believed in continuous economic development, until lately. They are used to living conditions, with their parents, that are constantly improving and don’t feel like they should experience anything less. In other words, if never having lived and paid for their own apartments, they don’t understand living any other way than in their parent’s established homes.

The wanna-be Spanish side of me wishes she could live in her parent’s home forever with meal and laundry service. The “hardworking American” side of me knows that until I live and pay for my own starter apartment, I won’t understand what it takes to pay for and build a home like that of my parents.

Maybe it is the sense of freedom the young Americans gain when they move away from home for the first time. I mean, young Spaniards can drink from an early age and stay out until 6 a.m. without a single question from their parents. So why would they want to move out? They have all the freedom they need already, plus meals and laundry service on top of that.

As much as I think I’ve adapted to the Spanish culture, I don’t think I will ever understand this phenomenon. I can respect the reasoning behind it but I think I speak for most Americans my age, I hope not to be living at home at the age of 30. No offense, Mom and Dad.

by Mary Doman

After a month in Madrid, I had expected the late nights, alcohol, miles of walking, olive-oil overdoses, and boiling heat to get to me, somehow. A little tummy ache? A sunburned shoulder? The slightest hangover? Though none (miraculously) of these symptoms have crept up on me yet, I still await the effects of my extreme lifestyle change to pounce on my poor body soon. When the time comes, though, I won’t be afraid. I know there are pharmacies waiting for me at any hour, on any street.

They’re everywhere. Almost every corner in this city has a bright green cross on it, glowing 24 hours a day: “farmacia.” Why do Spanish people need so many pharmacies? I wondered. The massive number of cervercerias is an excess I don’t mind a bit. The neverending tiendas de alimentación are curious, but convenient for chocolate, candy, and soda cravings. But pharmacies? What can explain this over-abundance? I took some down time to really focus on the dilemma (tears, empty coffee cups, chocolate bars…you know how these things work themselves out) and came up with a few ideas.

Some things I’d read a while back came to mind. When I was getting ready to leave for Spain, I thought I’d do a bit of research on the healthcare system in Spain, just in case something happened. I took a big sigh of relief because I realized that drugs are quite easy to get in this country.

Drugs! Without a prescription! And cheap, too. MadridMan writes about how his $20 prescription in the states only costs him 2.40€ in Madrid! What a steal. I also read about a lady who used the same British prescription slip in Spanish pharmacies for over a year. When she forgot the prescription, she just asked for Prozac or showed the pharmacist an empty pill box. Ta-dah! Antidepressants at every corner, no hassles. Of course now, the woman reports that actually doesn’t need her Prozac anymore because sunny Spain keeps her happier than the grey days of England ever did!

Another aspect of the Spanish government’s unique drug regulation system are the requirements for pharmacy store hours. At least one pharmacy must be open at all hours within a certain catchment area and, while some stores never open at night, there are plenty of farmacias that rotate an all-night service. So I suppose in a large city like Madrid, keeping a pharmacy on every corner is a pretty sure way to make sure all the residents, and especially all the pharmacists, get a healthy night’s sleep.

But simple regulations and drug availablity couldn’t be all that was keeping so many pharmacies in business, was it? I thought I would go to a farmacia myself to look for more clues. Taking a 30-second detour on my walk to work, I stepped into a farmacia and had a peek. Here I realized that the Spanish concept of “farmacia” doesn’t directly translate into the English word and American concept of “pharmacy.” Instead waiting seats and long lines, there was 90s music and aisles stuffed with snacks and drinks. The amount of creams, lotions, hair and dental products was impressive. The pharmacist was friendly and customers purchased everything from bottled waters to birth control.

Since the pharmacies have to be open so late and have so much competition, it’s no wonder that they pack their shelves with goodies and snacks, play fun music, and try to appear as appealing as possible. I almost wish my Spanish lifestyle would hurry up and take its toll on me so I could go for a chat with my friendly pharmacist! Not really, but if it rains I might drop in for some Prozac.

by Jeanne Reidy

It wasn’t that we were necessarily seeking out some English entertainment, but when we realized that the West Side Story would be performed in English (and subtitled in Spanish) as part of Madrid’s Veranos de la Villa 2009 festival, my sister, brother-in-law and I got tickets right away. Even though I was excited to see my favorite musical performed in such a unique setting, I have learned that in Spain, you never know what you’re going to get, so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Luckily, I was most pleasantly surprised.

The venue was incredible. El Escenario Puerta del Ángel is located in Casa de Campo and on a map, looked a bit complicated to get to. One switch of a metro line and a short walk and we found ourselves at a place I never knew existed. We didn’t know was to expect- an indoor theatre or an outdoor one for the summer festival or assigned seats or general admission or elegant theatre attire or a casual summer night out. We were surprised on all accounts.

First of all, Veranos de la Villa is an annual festival in Madrid starting at the end of June through mid-August. Each night, at various venues around the city, music, theatre, dance, musicals, concert poetry, movies, flamenco and circus acts are performed.

West Side Story, directed by Joe McKneely (music directed by Donald Chan), has been performed in Tokyo, Paris and now Madrid in celebration of 50 years since it debuted on Broadway.

The venue is an open air theatre in a giant landing space in the largest park in Madrid. I’m not quite positive if it is there year round or built for special events like this festival but I would imagine it is the latter. To take a break from the show, you simply need to glance to your left to see the western-facing side of Madrid’s Royal Palace and Cathedral, gently lit after sunset. There wasn’t a bad seat in the house- which was surprisingly not filled on the Saturday night. Apparently subtitled classic American musicals are not so appealing to the modern-day madrileño.

When we saw the start time of the show, 21:30, we couldn’t quite understand why a Spanish production would play through the dinner hours. We had just planned on grabbing an extra late dinner after the show. However, upon arrival, we noticed several vendors selling ready-to-eat fruit, bocadillos, snacks and drinks. This wasn’t ball park food either. You could enjoy a glass of wine and some fresh fruit on a leather chair under an umbrella before the show or during intermission. Furthermore, there were jewelers and other vendors for admiring. It seemed like they had thought of bringing every detail from an indoor venue outdoors to the middle of the park. Special appreciation goes to whoever thought to provide twice as many women’s bathrooms as men’s.

The show itself was impressive as well. The singing didn’t blow me away but the dancing most definitely did. The cast wasn’t huge but their stamina made it seem like there were twice as many actors. In typical Spanish fashion, the show started about twenty minutes late and the intermission took longer than planned.

You may be wondering, as we did, how to “subtitle” a musical. There was small screen hanging above the stage which was working double time to get the lyrics and dialogue across at the same time they were being said. I was surprised how successful a method it was actually. Because I basically have the lyrics of West Side Story completely memorized, I tried to spend most of the show watching the subtitles. To no surprise, some of the dialogue and lyrics don’t exactly translate across languages. For instance, some jokes in the show that should get an immediate reaction, did not come across in the Spanish version and if they did, due to the subtitles, the laughs were a bit delayed. I had to giggle a bit, as you can imagine, when reading the subtitles for “When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette, ‘til your last dying day”. Regardless, I think the madrileños got the idea and enjoyed a taste of American theatre. I know I did.

For a moderately priced ticket, the evening was well worth it. I strongly recommend taking advantage of this event or the rest of what Veranos de la Villa 2009 has to offer. I’m planning on it.

West Side Story plays until July 5th. http://www.esmadrid.com/veranosdelavilla/

By: Jeanne Reidy

Before arriving in Spain, I had heard that the Spanish culture is much more formal than the American.  I heard that little old ladies put on nylons and heels just to go to the supermarket and that no one dare wear gym shoes on the street. Very quickly after arriving, I learned that the track at the park near my apartment wasn’t for running but for old men in top hats and cigars and women in long fur coats to take a pre-dinner stroll. The strange looks I got during that experience taught me that Madrileños don’t commonly wear sweatpants and t-shirts in public either.  With all the characteristics of a formal culture in mind, I’ve been surprised by, in fact, how informal Spaniards are in many other aspects of their life.

First, the language. For a culture in which its people present themselves so formally, they speak to each other like they’ve known each other forever. For example, ever since I’ve been taught to conjugate a Spanish verb, I’ve been told that I will need to perfect the “usted” form, as I am to use it with anyone older than me, and that I will never need to know the “vosotros” form. Now, in American schools, this makes sense as they think the only Spanish speaker we will ever talk to will be from Mexico, where these rules apply. However, I hear nothing but “vosotros” forms of verbs and informal speaking in Spain. In fact, since being here, I’ve learned that Spaniards would only use the “usted” form of a verb to talk to the president or someone much older or important. It can be offensive to use “usted” with a Spaniard as it implies they are very old. Whoops…       

I’ve been surprised by some of the informal conversation I’ve heard between Spaniards. At a formal school function, I overheard my program director and a university professor meet and say “Hombre, ¿que tal? ” or the equivalent to “Dude, what´s up? ” Where else would you hear to grown women speak to each other like that at a formal event?

Not just the language, but the culture, too, has surprised me. I recently started tutoring a family of two kids in English. On my first day, I arrived at their door step, only having ever exchanged emails, only for the mom to scoop me right up and jump into conversation about the kids’ school work. I was expecting at least a few minutes of “So, where are you from? How do you like Madrid? ” But no- it was like I was a friend of the family that she had known for years. It was more of a “Oh good you’re here, let’s jump right into this”. I experienced the same thing when moving into my señora’s house. I was expecting a one-on-one session to go over house rules and guidelines. There was nothing of the sort. She showed me my room and bathroom and went on about her day, unalarmed, as if I’d been living there for months.  

Regardless of how different it is from the American culture I’m used to- one where a family would have interviewed and background checked me before inviting me into their home- it is refreshing. It is so nice to feel like everyone knows each other and are there to help each other out. Being part of the Spanish culture has given me the feeling that we’re all human, on the same world, with the same problems and goals, so why treat each other any other way?   

by Stuart Yochem and Mary Doman

Two young American girls were about to take off for a summer in Madrid, neither of them knowing what the future would hold. In their first blog, readers will see that Madrid welcomed them, confused them, robbed them, got them lost… but somehow always led them back to a nice home and a soft bed.

Stuart: Only a week ago, I was sitting in my bedroom in Charlotte, North Carolina anticipating (or more accurately worrying myself sick) over what the next six weeks would bring. I was headed to Madrid solo, where I would take up a new lifestyle, job, and have to make friends all over again. It seemed that my adventurous nature escaped into a vast forest and was not planning on returning. Upon arrival, however, my fears and insecurities magically disappeared. In a matter of minutes, I became entranced with what I saw outside the taxi window en route to my new casa. Within three days, I began adapting the Madrileño life style, eating meals later and taking life slower. In no time, I realized that venturing to España may have been one of my best decisions yet.

Mary: Only a week ago, I was enjoying some drinks and conversation at my friend´s wedding. Between sips of Bud Light and bites of chicken fingers, I strained my ear to hear the jokes and high school stories of my lifelong friends over the loud classic rock band. I smiled and nodded. And they smiled and nodded back. A very American understanding, I´d say. After a while, we headed to the dance floor to join the traditional dance train and obnoxious sing-along to ¨Sweet Home Alabama.¨ The next day, I´d be leaving my sweet home in Tennessee for a casa in Madrid. Like Stuart, I was seeking after a new lifestyle, a new job, and new friends.

Day 1, Stuart: In my twenty-one years of life on this earth, I have yet to sleep on any moving object. As I stepped onto the US Airways jumbo jet in Philadelphia, though I had sleeping pills in tow, I anticipated the next eight hours would be filled with reading my new book, watching TV, and perusing the cabin while other travelers remained in deep slumber. Over the years, I have learned that instead of getting angry at all those people who can fall asleep on the spot, I must accept that motion insomnia is a part of who I am.

Upon arriving in the Barajas International airport, the color under my eyes turning darker by the minute, it took little time to collect my bags and make my way to the Instituto Internacional. As the taxi driver moved into Madrid, I suddenly forgot about my sleep deprivation and began marveling at my new surroundings. Other students in the program arrived within ten minutes, and most, looking and feeling as tired as I, were friendly from the start. After a two hour briefing on our new homes, school, and careers in Spain, I walked with my monster of a suitcase to my home stay, conveniently located two blocks from school.

After meeting all of my housemates, including my senora Juana, her two daughters, a family friend, a French exchange student, and a Spanish student from Alicante, all of whom were as nice as can be, I settled into my new room and lay down. The next thing I knew it was dark out, and time for my first homemade cena! It seemed, surprisingly, that I was settling in pretty nicely and warming up to the idea of a new home a new people.

Day 1, Mary: Unlike Stuart, I slept quite a bit on my first day (Or, depending on what time zone you´re in, my first and second day). A late night of packing, plus general excitement and anxiety, gave me a large sleep debt that I was happy to pay off on my way to Spain.
The napping began in Nashville, and continued to Chicago. I was nodding off towards Philadelphia when something actually startled me awake. No, not flight attendants with free pretzels, but rather, the pilot´s voice on the intercom, saying he had to turn the plane around. Something about a small technical problem, something else, something something something, but we weren´t in danger of crashing, so that was a good thing. The bad thing was that I would definitely miss my flight from Philadelphia to Madrid.

Back in Chicago, a US Airlines employee handed me a meal voucher and a ticket to Frankfurt, departing at 10 p.m. After that, I slept for 6 more hours in Chicago´s Terminal 2, taking a 2 hour break for a turkey sandwich and beer at a Chili´s bar. Then more sleep, more planes, yada yada yada.
I made the most of my short journey to Germany, though, by purchasing an overpriced soft pretzel in the airport! While I sat in the terminal eating it, I met a girl named Jacklyn, also heading to Madrid for the summer.

When our journey ended, finally, in the Barajas airport, Jacklyn and I rubbed our eyes and began a 2 hour quest to find our luggage, tucked away in one of the four baggage claim arenas. After we found it, my new friend Jacklyn informed me that she needed to call a friend to arrange a ride. She didn´t have any euros, and after the information desk didn´t understand/help us with the situation, we put our trust in the Spanish people. I asked a man in a coffee shop if I could borrow his phone, and handed his blackberry to Jacklyn, who stopped crying and called her friend. Jacklyn and I parted ways after that.

Instead of giving the taxi driver the address to my school, where I was supposed to go when I landed, I gave him the address of my homestay instead. It was 9 pm by this time, and I´m pretty sure I missed that group meet and greet/orientation that you enjoyed so much, Stuart! I didn´t know if my senora knew I was coming, but I didn´t have a phone, or her phone number, or any phone numbers, for that matter, to call.

Of course I had written the address down wrong in my diary, and my driver and I spent an additional 45 minutes driving in the wrong direction before we found my casa. We had good talks, though, about Obama and paella. He dropped me off, and I knocked at my senora´s door, where, luckily, she answered.

Despite my unique journey, my day one ended up just like yours, Stuart- a welcoming Senora, a nice dinner, and a good night´s sleep.

Day 2, Mary: Day two was going well! I managed to get in touch with the school, catch up on orientation, and meet with my internship advisor. Then I met some kids and we enjoyed a nice afternoon in El Parque Del Buen Retiro and our first Spanish beers. In part due to my academic and vocational progress, and also in part due to the beer, I was feeling very Spanish and very worldly when I stepped onto the metro for my first ride.

When I stepped off of the metro, I was feeling very touristy and very stupid. My purse was feeling very light, now that it was mostly vacant and my wallet (complete with an ATM withdrawal, credit cards, and a driver´s license!) was in the sneaky hands of a thief, long gone. I had been robbed.
My second night in Spain was similar to the first, but this time topped with tears and poverty. I managed to cancel my credit cards over Skype, and discovered that my laptop´s touchpad is surprisingly waterproof. My senora delivered a nice bocadillo right to my room, with a coke and a chocolate bar. Her act of kindness, I told myself as I lay in bed, could maybe cancel out the act of injustice I´d encountered for day 2…

Day 2, Stuart: It sounds like you had quite an eventful couple of days, Mary! First, missing your connecting flight and airport hopping through Europe, and second, when you finally get here, someone robs you! I think this means that things can only look up from here. Plus, your story gives both readers and myself reason to ferociously grasp onto our belongings, so in a way you were helping out mankind by being robbed on the metro. So thank you, thank you, Mary.

Mary: No problem.

Stuart: So, as a new day dawned, I made my way over to Fernando el Catolico for my first day on the job at EV. The morning turned out great and after meeting a lovely staff with whom I´d be working for the next weeks, I was off to the metro. En route to the Moncloa stop, I took a detour to check out what shopping in Madrid had to offer. All I can say is bravo. Lots of boutiques with lots of good prices. After my half hour detour, I came upon my first metro station in Madrid. Feeling accomplished after I purchased my first metro pass, changing trains without error, and making it to Ruben Dario, I was beginning to feel like a native! (or at least a native who looks and acts utterly American).

I exited the metro station and began walking up the hills towards what I thought was my calle. Wrong. Somehow, I made my way at least two miles away from Calle Miguel Angel. As an hour passed, I, stubborn as ever, refused to ask for directions. With time, however, the frustration settled in and I began asking passerbys to point me in the right direction. Funnily enough, no one seemed to know the street, or know which direction to point me in. Plus, it was quite difficult trying to re-hone my Spanish speaking skills. I began to encounter some pretty bewildering looks.

After two hours, I began to ignore the fact that I was completely lost and started admiring all the different neighborhoods and natives. I´ve had a bad sense of direction for quite some time now, so instead of going into panic mode, I´ve learned to just deal with my inadequate map reading skills. The street just takes me where it wants to, what can I say?

Throughout my time wandering about the city, I stopped in at a phone store, where I purchased my first Spanish cell phone! Proudly walking out of the store with pre-paid cell phone and mobile plan, which I later learned was a complete rip off, I went from bank to bank in an effort to change my dollars into euros. I must have forgotten that most banks close mid-afternoon for siesta, so my effort was doomed from the start. Exhausted from walking, I grabbed a coca cola light and sat at the park as young children dressed in full uniform greeted their parents after school. Oh to be young.
As I sat in the park, fully realizing that I was already an hour late for the lunch my Señora had prepared for me, I began a people-watching marathon and began to get what was so great about the carefree nature of the Madrileños. (For those who are interested, I did finally make it home where I was heartily fed and after a long day, I turned in early).

Day 3, Stuart and Mary: On our third day in Madrid, we met and became instant friends. After sharing stories of our first two days, we decided that we both needed a coffee break. Stuart paid, of course. We sat in a Spanish bar for quite some time. Speaking English was a relief for both of us, and we bonded over senora stories and ideas for the summer. We began brainstorming our first blog entry. This is it.

What a bunch of foreign residents of Madrid love and hate about living in the Spanish capital.

by Tim Anderson

Christmas Day,

Nothing like spending time around the family, but if it’s your girlfriend’s family and she happens to be Spanish, it’s something you’re unlikely to forget. Grandmothers regaling you with stories past, parents shouting out trying to keep everything together and little cousins running around the house asking quizzical questions on life and trying to get attention from everyone.

Well, at least, that’s what I was imagining they were saying. I didn’t really understand much more than the welcome, the rest a stream of words that seem to have fallen from a great height at great speed, hitting my ears with a similar level of comprehension to that I get from listening to recorded deep sea whale conversations.

From the moment we walk through the door, the barely 5 foot grandmother who is at the same level as my rib cage, looks up and, in voice that has seen many cañas and cigarettes, starts commenting to the others about my appearance. I smile hopeful that what she said was intended to be funny. I even chuckle along with the other voices in the house. Why am I laughing at all? I have no idea what she said about me. Maybe,  ”He has more hair in his nose than a gorilla on its back”, hahahaha. I -just- don’t -know…

So I sit waiting, a small glass of wine in my hand, that seems to be especially the right dimensions for a 4  foot grandma, and practice my smiling. The food arrives and it’s the perfect excuse to fill my mouth with something that won’t allow me to speak for the foreseeable future.

The conversation rages like a storm in the tropical wet season. Just when one person seems to be talking at the fastest rate possible, another steps in to better them, taking the tempo to something that sounds like fast forwarding through a tape on my old stereo. It has quasi-dimensions and I won’t be surprised if they’re  taken into some kind of warp speed black hole, sucked into the centre of the table with the rest of the paella.

I keep focused on my third helping, careful not to make eye contact with the others at the table, if only I could reach the stuffed calamares, I am sure I could get to the end of the dinner. I swallow my last drop of deep Rioja, or is that the Ribera de Duero? Good wine makers these Spanish; a real soother in these situations, when my heart stops….. Did I really hear my name then? Please no…. Pleeease!!  Everything is silent. I imagine for a second that maybe the black hole really existed and wonder how I can get down it quick smart. I slowly raise my gaze. Sixteen eyes glare back at me, awaiting a response. The quizzical buddha looks ready to strike, the parents sit patiently with a smile. I can see them thinking, “She told us he spoke Spanish reeeally well“. The small children, who still manage to speak better Spanish than me, even though they have only been on the planet in the time since my last haircut, stare wildeyed at me, wondering why I don’t respond.

My girlfriend looks sympathetically at me, and then repeats the question in my current 101 Spanish….. slowly….. I still don’t get it. I am dreaming I had another glass of red ready but I don’t. I’m stuck. “Si”, I squirm. Laughter all around.  A great clap on the back from my girlfriend’s brother who I am liking even more now. The conversation is diverted. It once again gathers momentum as if it had just stopped to get fuel and continue on.

My glass gets freshly topped allowing me to slide back into the observers whole, happy to see the Christmas family in full bloom. The Spanish are never short of conversation, I observe. The farewells are next and I mistakenly think that this means we are going. An hour later and after some more coffee I rise from my seat, widen my smile to show how much fun I had, and down the rest of my wine. I don’t remember how many that was. The closeness of the Spanish family is something to admire and love about them, they really make an effort with each other.

I look forward to taking my girlfriend home with me next year, although another round of this sort of celebration would be good as well.

by Charlotte Smith

I’ve just finished reading the memoirs of Jean-Dominique Bauby, – The Diving Bell And The Butterfly, and I find myself not just incredibly moved and amused by his stories but strangely understanding of his incredible life change.

Borne out of very different circumstances Monsieur Bauby and I have thoughts and feelings in common. Both the author and I have a serious problem with communication.
For those of you who don’t know this book, you do now.
Jean-Dominique Bauby was the former editor of French Elle who suffered a massive stroke in 1995 that left him completely paralyzed a victim of ‘locked-in syndrome’- words that feel uncomfortably familiar to me.

At the age of 43, Bauby was imprisoned in his own body and left to communicate only with the use of his left eye and so he endeavoured to write his memoirs. He died just two days after their publication in 1996.
Now, I’m not suggesting that my situation is anywhere near as dramatic or difficult as the writers but I can certainly relate to the oppression and isolation that comes with a lack of access to those people around you and an inability to express yourself to the outside world.

The authors’ method of communication was arguably more limited than mine. For Bauby the alphabet was a series of eye winks which corresponded to the relevant letters, scribbled down by Baubys’ visitors to form the words, or at least fragments, of more or less intelligible sentences that the writer wished he could just say.
The process is not without fault as he explained…….”That is at least the theory, in reality all does not go well for some visitors”.
For very different reasons I can relate, I wish I could just say too – when acquaintances, and less often friends, (for obvious reasons) try to converse with me in Spanish I get different reactions, the more anal types try to finish my sentences and correct my constant grammatical errors while the less conscious (lazy) ones never correct anything I say leaving me to talk lots of rubbish until I finally exhaust myself, trip up on my words yet again and fall flat on my face.

And then there are of course those that just ignore me, they have conversations around me but not with me, even if I smile my really friendly smile and say, “¡Hola!”
These otherwise normal sociable moments can drop me in to a silent world which sometimes feels more oppressive and stressful than I could ever have imagined.

Monsieur Bauby you are my friend.

In the same way that the writer describes his very own cinema world I find myself imagining all sorts of weird and wonderful things in company having given up on my over interested expression that leaves me feeling compromised and vacant. Sunday lunch with my boyfriends’ family is a perfect example of this – I long for the day that I can have an effortless conversation with my boyfriends’ mother about nothing in particular; I daydream about us laughing out-loud together like I have with other in-laws before.

In my own diving bell I’m not sure if I’m really me anymore? I probably am? I think I used to be funny? Maybe I’m still funny?
Like Mr Bauby says, “Quite apart from the practical drawbacks, this inability to communicate is somewhat wearing”.

Not long ago I was asking for directions to the number 25 bus stop at Plaza Castilla, on my third attempt, and 20 minutes later, I finally managed to extract and translate enough information to get me where I needed to go. I boarded the bus, paid the relaxed driver, sat down, breathed properly and felt relieved and instantly proud of my own efforts.

It’s ironic how the pleasure/pain ratio usually manages to balance itself and sometimes tips in my favour freeing me like a butterfly for long enough to give me a taste for a life which is always challenging but more than that , it’s liberating. Jean D Bauby had the tenacity and humour to lift his own bell jar with a flicker of his eyelid which paved the way to a brilliant set of memoirs that freed him before his untimely death.

These days I can have lunch with my boyfriends’ family, yes, all 10 of them, without sweating my way through the first course, I can engage in small conversations with everyone, in particular my boyfriends’ mother, who I laughed out-loud with last Sunday. We were having lunch.

by Tim Anderson

Bar Etiquette
You might find yourself wading through a sea of paper napkins and peanut shells on the floor. All the while the owner is smiling like a Cheshire cat, until you sit at the bar get out your wallet and ask for a coffee and he promptly turns his attitude into an arctic freeze. The ice age continues when you refuse the complimentary tapas that were offered with your beer, even though you try to explain that you have just eaten the equivalent amount of the average sumo wrestler. The classic mistakes of the tourist ‘fresh off the boat’.
Don’t be overawed with the sea of shells. It´s a sign that the bar is popular and so most owners will let it pile up a little before getting someone to sweep it up. It also makes it a little easier if it’s all in the same place to pick it up more quickly.
When you go to order in Spain, there are two prices for most things in the bar, and they relate to whether you sit at the bar or sit at a table. The table is considered a much more refined and luxurious experience while a seat at the bar, with the noise of the orders going around you and the bartender buzzing about, is relatively nasty. As well, it´s easier for the bartender to see and serve you at the bar and make sure you are not taking a place in his establishment without ordering lots of his delicious offerings.
Put down the wallet! You may just be insulting the owner by suggesting there definitely wont be anything else you want to have while you are here. Wait, enjoy, see how you feel and don´t rush. All in good time, until you ask for ‘la cuenta por favor’ at the end.
Don’t refuse the tapas either. You don’t have to have it, but admire, nibble if you can. It’s more part of tradition and the experience rather than a necessity. Eat, don’t eat but let him give it to you. It doesn’t cost extra.

by Susana López

Junio es el mes del… fútbol. Y a pesar de que algunos lo consideran la religión del pueblo, todavía queda gente a la que no le gusta pasar la tarde viendo a un grupo de hombres corriendo de arriba abajo del campo. Si ese es tu caso, sigue leyendo. Te damos pistas sobre qué hacer para sobrevivir al mes más futbolero del año.

1. Toma el sol. Junio es el mes en el que todas las piscinas abren sus puertas. Aprovecha los rayos de sol y ponte morenito al tiempo que te relajas.
2. Cambia de estilo. ¿Por qué no? Aprovecha este verano para darle un toque diferente a tu imagen: colores chillones o un nuevo corte de pelo ¿te animas?

3. Ponte en forma. Ha llegado el momento de desempolvar tus zapatillas de deporte y echar a correr para perder todos esos kilos acumulados del invierno. ¡Ahora es el momento!

4. Haz turismo. A veces la ciudad en la que vivimos es la que menos conocemos. Vístete de turista (con sandalias y calcetines blancos) y explora los rincones más ocultos de Madrid.

5. Ve de terrazas. Madrid es la ciudad perfecta para tomar una cerveza al aire libre. En primavera la ciudad se inunda de terrazas que se mantienen hasta entrado el otoño.

6. Planea tus vacaciones de verano. Pensar en tu descanso veraniego te hará llevar mejor los calurosos días madrileños. Empieza a pensar en qué quieres hacer durante las vacaciones y echa a volar tu imaginación.

7. Aprende a bailar: salsa, merengue, cumbia e incluso tango. Pon a prueba tus dotes de baile apuntándote a uno de los numerosos cursos que se ofrecen.