When I turn on my kitchen tap, it sounds like a rotund old man is containing a wayward fart. Or, that his pet terrier is containing a yelp of fear before being sat on by old man’s similarly rotund old arse.
(Self-reminder: one mustn’t eat the produce of containers which hiss when opened.)
So, to have a very Carrie Bradshaw moment, after moving into a temporary studio apartment in the centre of Madrid, I’ve gotten to thinking. “Is this the height of coolness, or a desperate attempt to live a life that I’m not yet equipped to live?”
The apartment is very cute; wonderful for a single girl to enjoy and call her own. It’s a split room job, polished floors and high ceilings, a faux-leather sofa and a wall made entirely of shelving (enough for even the most rampant trinket horder to stash all her bits and pieces). There are several lighting options to suit mood, and a balcony at the height of the young tree outside. True, I’d change the pitch black entrance hallway before the front door, my kitchen wouldn’t be in a cupboard, and my shower would be big enough to shave comfortably in; but as this is not a place where I’ll live for ever, those are things that I can forgive.
View from my temporary haven's window. So easy to be a voyeur in Spain...
The first night I was here, I decided not to eat, and instead filled what space was left in the wardrobe (my friend has a lot of clothes), with the contents of my bag. The next day, I headed out the front door, strolled past the fountained plaza and as yet unopened bars and cafés near it, and went in search of sustinence. Coffee first, and then food.
Coming home, and beginning to fill my fridge with my first food purchases, I had a thought.
“That was expensive, for not much reward.”
That is to say, I’d brought home the bare necessities (cereal, milk, rice, pasta, veggies and…tuna – yes, again tuna!) and had been forced to hand over 20€ without even trying.
Now, I’m not a brand girl (except for chocolate and coffee) and believe what my mother always told me; that all over the world, there are factories where the same products exit via two doors. One door, grey and boring for the black and white no name brands to come out, and the other, a sparkly pink door with it’s own personal fairy lit marching band, where the glittery name brands exit and are stamped with an inflated price of their own. This may or may not be a slightly cheesed up version of my mother’s advice, but the point still stands. The morning in question, my first shopping outing in Madrid, I had entered in Día (known cheap-o supermarket) and had not even indulged in farmer’s market, organic produce and Kellogg’s cereal. The milk was UHT (like all milk is in Spain, but that’s another complaint) and the pasta was certainly not made in Italy, nor had any pretence at all of having been. Neither had I splurged on wine, or chocolate, or fruit, or the saucepan and dishwashing liquid that I’d seen my little flat had lacked. That would all have to come later.
After observing my not even full bar fridge for a moment or two, I became aware of a little voice whispering at my shoulder.
“It’s because you’re single.”
“Pardon, little voice?”
“You’re buying for one person.”
“Well, what do you expect? That I buy for you too? Or the family I hope to have someday?”
Sadly, the little voice was right. Eating for one, and not eating crap, is not cheap. You can buy all the rice, potatoes, salt and garlic that you want, sure. But once you have the idea to dress it up a little with something green, it’s time to say adiós to loose change paying for the weekly shop.
I, anyway, can’t actually do a weekly shop, as I eat vastly more than a rabbit does, and so in shopping for only a few days, already come home lugging a few bags as it is. In some share houses, my biceps haven’t had this work out, as I’ve shared food, and thus had help with the lugging of bags.
Upon leaving home, I moved in with Kieran, a excellent friend who also turned out to be an excellent flatmate (these are more difficult to find then they may seem). We had a shared interest in hungover underwear shopping, blue chaise lounges, the blue and grey monochrome of our neighbour’s washing line, eggs for breakfast, strong tea drunk on the back deck and hunting rogue mice that were invincible to any bait. And importantly, we only fought one and a half times. The first, when he criticised an outfit that I was going to wear; after which I told him to shove it and he would not, where upon I reacted by hitting him with a boot. And the second; a half-hearted moment when I was making curry the way I’d always seen it made, and he got just a teensy bit uppity about my mum’s quick and busy method before spouting a small monologue about India and insisting that he continue. The fact that his version was light years superior is beside the point.
Kieran's alphabet magnets were awesome. Beat pen and paper anyday.
Anyway, we shared food. And it made shopping easier and cheaper and more fun to return from the shops together, working our abs by tensing and relaxing them as we lifted shopping bags like dumbells. Sharing food only became just a teensy bit of a problem when the fact raised its ugly head that I ate just a teensy bit more than he. Which only came to light one day when I ate a teensy bit of what was his share of some leftovers we’d cooked together. Which I think was in fact his aforementioned superior curry; thus adding fuel to the half-hearted fire. From which point I simply ate less, that in itself being an effort I must say. But all this did explain how it was that he could fit into my jeans without any effort, while I had to suck in a little to do the same.
My next house was an airy flat of a minimum of five, maximum of seven in Barcelona, myself at one point being the only un-Brazilian. We didn’t share anything, but occasionally cooked together before enjoying an impromptu 5am mojito. These flatmates taught me how many carrots should ideally go in a carrot and chocolate cake (eight or nine), how to make empadão (a chicken dream) and, finally and most importantly for humankind, where I learned how to cook rice without either searing the pot black, or ending up with a lump of indistinguishable grey smush. Nothing scary food-wise happened in this flat, except for when Thorsten, the German counterpart, brought home a leg of jamón one day and we all learned how to carve off little slices with the strange sort of long, un-serrated knives that evidently one is to use. I wasn’t a fan of this piece of pig in my kitchen (its hoof still attached), as it smelt and tasted as I imagined (and still imagine) human flesh must smell and taste.
5am mojitos in jars. Scary jamón in background.
House number three. I had my second, and equally successful attempt at moving in with already made friends – the lovely Mandy and Kelsey. Mandy and I met in Spanish class, and had already bonded over food in a major way, her serving me a sort of mini dinner once or twice a week between her classes, and before my skipping off to serve beer in large quantities to drunken Englishmen on La Rambla. During our time as flatmates, I learned how to make potatoes interesting, and she learned that potatoes are not, in fact, a “free” vegetable.
This sad fact came to her one night when at around 10pm, after returning from giving a late class and having eaten a sizeable plate of her “pink pasta” (spiral pasta, butter and tomato sauce), she returned to the living room with a plate of freshly fried and salted potato cubes. While trying to decipher the Catalán news program on TV Kelsey and I had heard them spitting away in the kitchen and thought it better not to ask. But ask we had to, as Mandy happily sat down to eat her second massive helping of carbohydrates in almost as many minutes.
“What are you eating?”
“Potatoes.”
“Didn’t you just eat pasta?”
“Yep.”
“Potatoes are like pasta, you know. It’s a huge source of carbs.”
“What do you mean? It’s a vegetable. Veggies are free food.”
“Who said that?”
“Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah, but potatoes don’t count.”
This went on for some time, and finally became a world-shattering realisation for Mandy of the variety that I don’t really think will ever allow her to return to her life of old. Sort of like for me, when at 5 years old I had a nightmare where in Michael Jackson was waiting for me in the darkened spare bedroom at my grandparents’, before chasing me through their house. (Soon after, I learned that he had not always been the translucent, white, destroyed of nose specimen I’d grown so used to seeing. And my world hasn’t been the same since).
Old flatties, Brazilian and otherwise...
Kelsey too had a special relationship with food in our house, involving mostly her amazing ability to whip up delicious hors d’œuvres suitable for the sort of entertaining we didn’t yet consider ourselves old enough to partake in. Of special note were her honey-roasted tomatoes with balsamic vinegar, and a certain dip which remains curious to this day; namely cream cheese, purple grapes and coriander leaves, sliced and mixed together. Kelsey also introduced quimwah (a grain which I can’t spell) to my life, taught me how to make salad dressings from scratch, and was the author of some amazing, yet odd molasses and chocolate chip cookies (made, or not made as the case may be, for the arrival of a very dashing Venezuelan one lazy Sunday afternoon).
Incredible as her cooking skills could be, Kelsey herself ate simply. She was often seen staring at her shelf in the fridge – remembering yet again that she’d forgotten to go shopping – before taking out an apple, a block of cheese and a knife. She’d be found moments later, sitting on the couch and expertly shearing off slices of each, before eating them in a sort of apple-cheese-apple sandwhich. Sometimes, cheese-apple-cheese.
I was reminded off all this as I lugged home my first shop, before returning to the supermarket to lug home the saucepan and cleaning materials I lacked. I was actually very lucky that month. A friend not currently in Madrid was letting me use her cute little studio for a relative pittance; paying basically the bills themselves. This was such a gift, that it was actually making me a little lazy. Lying in, making breakfast slowly before deciding whether or not to go out and achieve anything that particular day. Soon, I realised that my diary had filled up with trips here and there out of the city, and I hadn’t yet put any elbow grease into finding myself a place for when my friend returned.
True, I wasn’t going to find myself a place quite like this one. 600€ a month is too much for me; much as I’d like to tap into my inner Carrie Bradshaw and live alone and mostly fabulously in the centre of an exciting city. Though, as I remember, even Bradshaw, in her special whiny way, complained occasionally about the rent.
“How can you save some money, short term?” I asked myself, watching my shopping bags cut into the palms of my hands.
Survive on rice and chicken stock? Hmmm, no. I like food. Not salmon and sirloin mind, but having colour on my plate. And not eating things that already look as they’ve been chewed and partially digested.
Grow my own veggies? Yeahhh. In a little apartment, sure. Over a year ago, my new year’s resolution had been to find a place with a rooftop terrace, from which to grow fresh herbs (which I’d of course learn how to include in my soon to be awesome cooking). Rooftop terrace found, five months later the herbs had yet to eventuate.
Keep the lights turned perpetually off, and live under the glow of candlelight? Sounds wonderful, though romantic though it may be, would not be practical nor ease my already fairly innate jumpity-ness. Having been brought up in a land where leaves crackle as merrily as one’s morning Rice Bubbles, and a single spark can birth a blaze which wipes crops clean off the face of the earth, fire danger is always a very real thought in my mind as I watch a tealight candle burn in its little metal dish. Knowing a candle is burning, I can hardly leave the room for a moment, not even to go to the next. And anyway. After a trip to “Natura” (Spain’s answer to Australia’s hippy wannabe shop “Tree of Life”), I found that candles are not actually as cheap as they might be. And with a burning time of 5 hours each, but diameter of…well…30 centimetres…I would need a good 40 in my flat at any one time to light my way. And the heat they would give off in a Spanish summer isn’t even worth mentioning.
Paying for one person’s inner city existence isn’t a cheap practice. Smaller packages of food aren’t proportionately smaller in price, and bulk buying isn’t feasible as the produce rots in the refrigerator before one has had a chance to munch through it. We are hence limited to choosing one of the two options or trying to agree on a wider range of shared food with flatmates. Some cities have limited this problem for us, making outdoor eating as cheap as it is in your dreams (I’m looking at you, Berlin and your massive Turkish community!). But others (Hi there Barcelona and Madrid!) haven’t, leaving us to be as creative as possible with our food preparation.
One of my resolutions this year was to be more creative food-wise, while not spending any more money on sustinence. What will be acomplished will be interesting, as I am still a little too impressed with myself when I manage to do something simple well – as with my 2007 rice success, the first time I made a good white sauce, and the perfect omelette I fashioned moments ago.
My goals therefore, will be:
Let’s see how we go.
24 hours almost to the hour after first arriving in my temporary flat in Madrid, I’ve had to ask myself why I’ve returned to Spain for the third time in as many years, to set up in city number three.
Yesterday, after sleeping on and off on my flight from Frankfurt (and finally coming to completely after sleep snorting so loudly I woke myself up) I arrived in Madrid’s Barajas airport and spent the next half an hour trying to get out again, before another hour negotiating the metro. Arriving at Ópera station, I got out my map (folded into six so as to look a little less obviously like I was holding a map) and began negotiating the side streets surrounding the Palace. I had been down Fadia’s street before, but that was in the afternoon and after the help of a third of a large pitcher of sangria, shared with her and a friend at a Mexican restaurant nearby. In the dark evening of a Monday night, puntuated by the many lights of nearby bars just beginning their trade…it was slightly more difficult to find. I did get there, only realising I’d done so as I crossed a people-dotted plaza for the second time, carefully avoiding the couple I’d asked for directions minutes before, and was about to make my way up yet another side street, when a man sitting by a fountain called “Ereén?” in the particular way that only the Spanish do.
Joseba had been expecting me, and took me to the studio apartment that would be my September home. He was brief, friendly and to the point…and after pointing out where the kitchen was (behind a cupdoor and resembling a wardrobe), he left me to my own devices. Of course, I did call him back momentarily, as my key had become splendidly wedged in the lock and I was having visions of being locked forever in and dying in a starving heap, unable to jump out my balcony due to an immense sugar low. But that was soon sorted, and I was alone. It was perfect.
The studio is a one room job, “separated” by two open archways that lead from the entrance hall to the lounge/bedroom. The bathroom is just too small to negotiate comfortably (I tried shaving my legs this morning, much to the amusement of…well…myself), and the kitchen is (literally) situated in a cupboard. But this is all just mildly comical in its own way, and besides, the polished floorboards, leather sofa and television blasting out all the crappy Spanish programs my heart could wish for make it all wonderful. After deeming myself too buggered to go out and look for nourishment, I halfheartedly unpacked before throwing myself into bed, deciding to set my alarm for 10am, justifying this by reasoning that I’d only woken up at this time twice in two months (conveniently ignoring the fact that this is normal for many people out there).
So this morning, I was woken to the strains of my terribly outdated mobile phone’s alarm, and slowly waltzed out of bed. It was to be an important day, if not a memorable one. It was to be my first in a new city. I was going to step out my front door, a new, if rather untraditional Madrileña. The day was to be dedicated to finding a bank, filling my fridge and finding clothes for a job interview I have scheduled for Thursday. Madrid was already seeming far more cosmopolitan than Sevilla, I noted as I sat down to have a café con leche and a tostada con tomate y aceite (a flat white and a toasted panini with olive oil and smooshed tomato). In Sevilla, cafes shun you and turn you away in a special sort of pissed off manner if you so dare as to ask for tostadas after 10am. Breakfast ends, you see. Never mind the fact that toasting bread and smearing it with squishy, ripe tomatoes is not rocket science; the timing is paramount. The Spanish can be very German in this respect.
Plaza Mayor - an old guy on a segue. Fabulous.
I spent a good hour in this place, reading the Spanish equivelent to Q Weekend, and learning all manner of things about the three current reinas of Hollywood (Eva Méndes, Julia Roberts and Angelina Jolie, for all of you playing at home), as well as how we’ve become so scientifically and technologically adept, that we no longer know how we are emotionally. I knew how I was emotionally, and that was aware that if I didn’t soon find a supermarket, I’d be eating tostadas and drinking coffee at this place three times a day. I was going to ask the barman where I might find sustinence…but realised that I’d ruined that by giving him the exact amount he asked for, in one, two and 50 cent pieces. No tip. Not that you actually tip here, but did he looked worse for wear upon seeing my shrapnel.
After finally finding a supermarket and realising that downtown Madrid is actually not that overwhelmingly large; I karted my purchases home, placed tuna on my kitchen shelf for the first time in eight weeks, and made lunch. A boring lunch. Interesting cooking skills will have to go on my list of things to achieve this year, alongside taking salsa and tennis lessons, learning Portuguese to a respectable pre-intermediate level, finding an English/guitar intercambio partner and joining a local swimming pool when, in fact, I find one. After a siesta (which I will not allow myself the indulgence of every day!), I remembered that I possessed no suitable attire for the job interview that I have lined up for this Thursday.
Off I went, and back home I came four hours later…laden down not only with the spatula, washing liquid and mini saucepan the cupboard kitchen had lacked, but also with four tops, a dress, new jeans and some undies. None of which was really suitable for an interview. Hmmm. Well, the jeans and a top could possibly be, if jazzed up with jewellery. But man, after arriving in Madrid, all thoughts of myself happily roaming the streets in jeans had been scratched off the plan – much as I’d have killed for an extra pair of pants in chilly old Frankfurt.
But the question remains, why have I come back again? I think it’s a bit of a combination. Somehow, I have the feeling of not being “finished” with this country, but at the same time, I’m not sure what it is I’m missing here. I’ve already realised that (unless their father ends up being a overwhelmingly-proud-jamón-eating-Spanish-nationalist who insisted on staying; in which case, I’d have to wonder why he’s the father) I wouldn’t raise kids here. And it isn’t that there’s anything in particular wrong with the country in terms of being kid friendly – I just know that a garden and house, like those we know, can’t be beaten.
The food isn’t even my real cup of tea (and the tea isn’t anything to rave about either for that matter!) It’s usually too greasy and pork-encompassing, and vegetables are worth their weight in gold, if you find any at all. The bread is expensive if you want a variety that isn’t bubbly and white, and milk is of the UHT variety (in fact, I haven’t actually seen fresh milk once in three years).
But there is something about the lifestyle that keeps me here, and the architecture, and the language. The language is a major factor. I considered moving to Berlin or Sweden, but realised that it would be and exhausting and hugely difficult task to learn the language, due to the blondies’ amazing ability with English. The Spanish, on the other hand, remain a little less coherent in general with their English, a fact that keeps me afloat when I’ve had less than coherent moments swimming about their language.
So, another chapter begins. I’m going to go slowly and with my eyes open to enjoy it as I walk.
