Tackling blog writing again ! Difficult on my iPhone but here goes. Maybe this should be about the 4 weeks or so in Spain,mainly about walking the Camino Mozarabe from Almeria to Cordoba? But will save that for some other blogs.This is about hasta luego, not adios. Because I will be back to a place where I feel I belong in some way.Walking those 20 or so km each day we started in the very early morning ,walking hopefully. Then as the heat increased and paths took themselves around mountains and the flechas(arrows) disappeared ,spirits sank:yet another long long afternoon with the sun beating down as we trudged one foot in front of the other towards a destination which seemed to move further and further away.Then a glimpse of a pueblo, a few minutes of shade, a shepherd walking across the path with his goats or sheep,a sweeping vista over valleys ,down chasms we hope not to have to navigate.Worth the suffering because we are the only persons here privileged to witness this grandeur.
And now Madrid ,this huge , tall ,vibrant , proud and youthful city.
What is there about cleaning that is inspirational?There is lots that is just hard physical work and testing of tolerance for human beings -that is if you run a short term rental.After a series of great guests ,have had a run of wingers ,frying pan destroyers and ,worst of all ,sticky fingers Sticky fingers I mean on walls ,on every surface of glass ,tables,chairs and floors .Now no more free kids,my heart is hardened -kids pay double .
So have stated some of the worse aspects of cleaning ,now for the not exactly benefits ,lets call them compensations or maybe just optimisations ,making the best of a bad job.
The following piece of writing came from cleaning a year ago. .As I folded the corners of a resistant sheet I remembered how my mother was so strict about how we made beds(interestingly we didn’t do that very often as we had servants in the old Colonial Africa to perform such menial tasks.But if a very special guest was visiting then my mother waded in to ensure that appearances were preserved ,and the “girl” could not be relied on to do that ,so I was roped in).As I struggled with the corners of 3 queens and 2singles,my mind wandered from sheets to dust to witchcraft,then on to beauty,age and dying:
Things my Mother Taught Me
You taught me always to pull back sheets and inspect mattresses,
look for evidence of habitation
check the springs and indentations .
You told me to fold sheets at corners first,hospital style .
I had to unmake many beds because the corners were not right ,
the bedding was not tight .
I never mastered the skill,till now
making tidy corners for paying guests .
Ran your fingers over shelves to check for dust ,first thing
as you came into a room in your finery
dressed for entertaining
smiling .
No one knew we had a witches in our family :
Tante Ena ,who wove enchantments with her pubic hair
We looked carefully at the liquid in our cups to make sure it was safe to drink
that there was no single floating pubic hair.
As a child I wondered if thats why we were checking mattresses too ,
just in case another Aunty had been there ,
leaving some voodoo magic buried in the room.
I met her later, that aunt ,very ill and carefully groomed
living with the man she’d stolen away .
I knew then that witches do not always look like witches .
Tante Ena didn’t look like Grandmere Maure ,the old wizened woman
crouched over her cards in a gloomy ,overgrown verandah
dark as the ace of spades, my father used to say
(He said a lot more about that side of the family)
Why did they take me there,to that crazy woman in the dark ?
My first cousin ,the beautiful one ,a great grandchild of the ugly witch
was a witch too,but a doomed witch.
Her beauty killed her in the end
she enchanted her way to money and ease
and died by her own hand .
Oh Tessa in the London apartment over looking Kensington Park
sitting on a stool in front of your mirror
preparing to go out
applying make up to your perfect skin, green eyes smiling at me in the glass
kind to an admiring ill dressed cousin
watching with stars in her eyes ,
so pleased to meet the errant one .
She was named after you ,mum,your godchild.
Theres the connection :two beautiful women a generation apart
one died young
the other has become old and sad
and witches ,scattered throughout the years ,
are still around
I know .
When we sleep at night then the house moves
When we close eyes and dream or weep ,depending on our frame of mind .
A blink of an eye they say and things can change
Hurricanes happen ,the earth opens ,wind hurls itself at trees and sea eats up the shore
A blink of an eye and babes are born ,people die or change
A short sleep may be a dangerous thing .
When you awake things are not what they were
You cant find your favourite fork ,a much loved chair
A carpet gone from where it always was ,beneath your bed
Has it really happened ,or is it your head ?
Things have changed
When we take our eyes of things they move away
When we close our eyes and dream or weep ,depending on our frame of mind ,
They leave .
When you awake you are perplexed to find
There is no box of keepsakes beside your bed ,no potions there
No messages left to help you cope
Gone or taken ?Perhaps you’re blind :
They’re really there
A real peregrino doesn’t crack a smile
When you talk of vino tintos and cafe con leche
Drinking in scattered bars along the way
A real peregrino is never muy frio
He knows being cold is part of his journey.
Flip flops slopping down albergue corridors
He walks to mass and comida and off to bed.
In the cold dawn light he sits straight up
Feet into boots,beanie on head
Rattles his plastic bags into his pack
Grabs his sticks and clops down the corridors
To the icy outside to face another long day .
No slacking for him
No breakfast
No sitting over coffee and yarns
He’s a man on a mission.
A real peregrino recognises
Those who are not real peregrinos
Those who have come along for the ride
He knows God is not on their side.
Those cheery ones who may be touristicos
Spoiling the Way,
Who do not pray.
Only thoughts of God are in his head,and avoiding hell
A real peregrino doesn’t feel the chill of the monks cell.
I wonder if God knows
Who is real and who is not
Does he care?
“Buen camino”prays the priest
“Ve con Dio “he murmurs
To all of us standing heads bowed
May God be with your steps along the way.
The Lady of the Cakes (Jan 2016 blog) highlights the 5 main bits of useless advice about learning a language and asks for contributions along the same lines. While no additional advice springs to mind ,here are some thoughts from an intermediate Spanish learner about learning Spanish .According to Duolingo,the free language learning app, I am now 45% proficient,and I would like to acknowledge my gratitude to the program which forms the cornerstone of my learning.Examples are taken from Duolingo but all interpretations and mistakes are mine.Also I ask for your indulgence ,gentle reader,for any errors in spelling,translation and meaning.
I only have a few notes at the moment .When I have my earphones on and am waiting for that success sound at the end of a section-
“DA …AH …A…A …. “ ,and watch my SP rise(that is the time spent that day on Duolingo),I am loathe to stop and record.Then there is the notification that I have ,finally,gone up one stage (am stage 13 at moment,feels like I have been on 13 for ever and ever).Mostly I cannot afford to be distracted by recording the strange combinations of nouns and verbs I have encountered. However today I managed to record some of the phrases that fascinate,puzzle and sometimes scare.
First category :Scary/Sinister
The knives and razors -razuradora.The word itself is a combination of a harsh slashing sound and a soft ,homely “dora “ at end .Cucharas (knives) is all soft .Ok lets concentrate on the razors.Someone is always shaving :dad ,doctors , lawyers.Is there something sinister about this ? Is it a sign that Spanish guys like to go without facial hair?I guess the other question is why do I have to learn this .Knives alright,I might need to ask for one in restuarant ,but razors ,no.
Into this fits “sotano”(basement) -“yo duermo-en el sotano….Why am I sleeping in the basement ? And why would I ever want to read there? My Anglo view of basements is linked to darkness and confinement:my grandfather in a freezing English winter long ago escaping to the basement to collect coal for the kitchen boiler,a hunchback aunt who would spring out of her damp ,evil smelling basement rooms as soon as one of us children went downstairs on the way to the miniscule garden outside the lower ground floor of the terraced house .Certainly creepy.
In this category too falls the “comandante” y “coronel” sentences .Why do they always have to Hablen together ? One wonders what they are up too ,especially as the coronel”has such a rounded and soft sound .Moreover there is one phrase later on about “el commandante tiene una bomba”(the commandant has a bomb)Bombs?and a feminine ending too.
Category2 :Cleanliness,Clothes and Capability
Is Spain obsessed with cleaning and bathrooms ?Someone,usually feminine,is always cleaning the bathroom ,and the bathroom and kitchen have to be “limpia”.As a visitor I always ask if the room has a bathroom (tiene un dormitorio con bano?) ,not if the bathroom is clean .On my travels I have always cared more about the toilet than the bathroom ,like how far away is it in the night and how many beds do I have to stumble over before I get there.
Perhaps I am one of those who simply do not fit -Tu no capes,-and it seems like fit does not just mean because of size ,but just don’t fit in.A lot of sentences have a he or a she who do not fit.Or else not capable .
And why is the shirt (“camisa””)so important ,for males as well as females ? “Camisa” and “ropa” are recurring first words on Duolingo.next to greetings .I wonder if Spanish youth go round unclothed ,or have in the past ,or are shirts symbolic of states ? “Yo tengo suficiente ropa” The word ropa..is singular and plural ,and has a feminine ending .Certainly I have learned about red (roja)shirts and green(verde) shirts.Also about being dressed.
Category 3 Madres
Spanish guys love their mothers, and of course the Madonna is omnipresent even though Franco has long since gone .Personally I love this about Spain ,and the fact that the sons-always the sons -,“ayudan” (help)their mothers .But my feminist side does ask about the whereabouts of the daughters(who in my experience always end up caring for their grouchy or ungrateful mothers ) and the mothers’ partners( who seem to escape). On the other hand there is a certain equality in the language in relation to gender.I don’t know enough about gender and that has been discussed in another Lady of the Cakes blog-but there seems an equal,some might say random, distribution of male and female endings.
Why I love Spanish-Enamorado
I love the Spanish language precisely because of its puzzles and ambiguity ,at least in this still quite ignorant learners eyes
But most of all I love Spanish for the richness of its metaphors and the stream of yearning that runs throughout.Yearning and ambivalence .Madrugada ( the dawn ),todo el dia (all day)The dawn of the new day does not sound as poetic as” La madrugada del nuevo dia” Similarly Anoche-through the night ,conveys a night of possibiities and variations .Spanish nights full of music and food and interaction ,long long nights that stretch beyond the ten o’clock curfew of us organised Anglos .Nights are for adventures and romance,as well as for strange “aparace”:It appears ,it seems .Not is .
”And nothing is but what is not “ (Macbeth,Act,Sc3.)Perhaps an unfortunate quotation,as neither I nor the Spaniards are contemplating murder.However to those of us who in our daily life contemplate the blurred distinctions between reality and imagination ,the increasing ambiguity of existence,Spanish affords great comfort.The Spanish language offers the opportunity to merge into another life,even to temporarily adopt another persona .
Sambasue21 