Historias de la Gran Patranha

Day 10 - To France (Saint Emilion)

2010-10-05T17:49:00.000Z

On the way out from Burgos we mainly took the motorway, which drove through landscapes of mountains and yellow valleys with hundred of wind turbines. We took some photos of the passes and tunnel entrances, all through Navarra and País Vasco, but they do not show the scenic heights that surrounded us. One thing is for sure: thanks EU fund for these roads which are speeding our route!

Then, joy of joys, we drove into our favourite road and landscape... the frickin bloody Landes, with dryness and pines. Look, "un pin!, deux pins, trois pins, un pin, un autre pin, otro pino, another pine and another friggin pine!" Why oh why is the pine landscape just so disheartening?

Anyhoo... we slowly crawled out of Les Landes to find landscapes of sunflowers - looking burned, tired and forlorn - and eventually of vine rows, around Bordeaux, each row starting with a pretty little red plant (from geraniums to poppies)... just very pleasant to see not pines but vineyards heavy with grapes and lovely winding roads shadowed with trees on the sides - shall I repeat that these were, thankfully, not pines. After some hours, and after quite a long drive, on the top of a slope, we finally could see Saint Emilion, in white stone, surrounded by miles of greenery, "les vignobles".

What a funky little village, with not a single house out of tonality or out of date (how could they be untouched by the errors of the seventies?), with a couple of churches (well, maybe one church + one tower), lots of little wine shops and restaurants with character and a wealth of hotels (of course, wine and tourists come hand in hand). Surrounded by walls, our hotel, L'Auberge de la Commanderie, was accessible through one of the medieval doors in the ramparts and then over-viewing the roofs of the town. Spot on, very central, lovely façade, clean inside... just crap design in the interior and bog quality of the French "systeme hotelier".
Someone had tried hard to dress the room iwth a "wine" and vineyard themed wooden pannel covering the wardrobes and header of the bed, but the plastic chairs and table in the rather small room, joined with the crap fitted bathroom, made it all lack the lustre such a location should deserve (what did I say about the seventies? we found them just in our room!). Our price, around 75€... same room, during the wine festivities would be charged at 120€ There, that's 2 (French) stars for you. The accueil was nice enough and I have to acknowledge that the brekkie was lovely with lots of French goodness and croissants (yum yum!).

Late that night, we walked around taking photos of the town in the sunset and discovering some quirky shops that we pinpointed for the following day (antique bookshop and fabrics place), and dined in a great looking tavern with jardin ombragé (I think it was "L'envers du decor"). With the heat, eating outside in the garden, a lovely secluded location in the shadow of a church and a big fig tree, was the best option. The waiters, "English spoken with French accent" (as per the sign on the door), took their time in serving but we were just relaxed and enjoying the night.

We tasted some of the local wines, admired the designs of the owner's wine bottles - specially "l'ours fou", of which we took a print the next day -, and ate a most lovely duck breast with carrot souffle and duc confit (heavenly). Desserts... I had creme brulee, and Phil "envie de chocolat", like a brownie which just killed him... death by chocolate!

Day 9 - Burgos and Las Huelgas (medieval history galore)

2010-09-11T11:37:00.000Z

Plaza Mayor, Burgos, in case I had not shown this earlier.

The following day brought more sun and warmth. We visited the amazing cathedral - way to "rococo" for Phil, who was disgusted at the splendour and riches of the church. I enjoyed the detailed gargoyles, architectural little corners carved with figures, and the Capilla de los Condestables with their wonderful tombs.

Took photos galore but will not punish you with them - I'll just introduce you to the "condestabla" :-p and "condestabe".

Then we went to the monastery of Las Huelgas - by which stage Phil was unfortunately all "churched out". I enjoyed the guided visit of the "house for the daughters of kings", most of which became abbesses with great power - administrative and judiciary, independent, only accountable to the Pope.

Since my photos are crap, and we were not allowed to take any of the nice bits, you better check out the photos on the official site here

The name of "Las Huelgas" comes from the leisurely pastures that were located in the area, to feed the king's cattle; as it was "royal stock", the animals were not to do any labour, so they spent their days doing nothing ("huelgando").

Apart from the issue with the abbess, the animals, and the enclosed nuns that still live there, there's the absolute wonder of the mozarab (almohade? something...) influence that colours the place. The king, admirer of such architecture, employed Arabic motifs all over and thus one can find Arabic arches as entrance to catholic churches and chapels, ceilings decorated with multicoloured peacocks, geometric shapes, Arabic script in the cloister, and a most wonderful "techo artesonado", as in any mosque, overlooking the kings oratory or little chapel where he was knighted.

Now... on to the most surreal story of medieval cunning...

The "knighting" business seems taken out from Blackadder; this chap became king ad the tender age of eleven following the death of his father. Thus, with the old king dead, when the time came to knight the child so that he was ready for battle, they couldn't find anyone higher than him in rank (I guess that in height they could have just called the cook in the taberna next door; biggest - as in height and shape - cook I have ever seen!). So, they decided to get God to knight him. But, since God must have been unavailable to attend the celebration at the time due to sundry commitments, some intelligent courtiers - or maybe the king himself - ordered an effigy of St. James holding a sword on his right hand and with his left hand open. Nothing special, huh? Well, the arms were mobile - like Mari Carmen y sus muñecos (which you'll only know if you were a child in Spain in the eighties) - so that Santiago himself could place on and hit with the sword the king's shoulder twice with his right hand and give him the "espaldarazo" - pat in the back - with the left hand personally... ingenious/ingenuous or what?

Finally, the visit to the museum of dress and fabric located in the monastery gave us a great glimpse of some superbly maintained pieces - taking on account that these dresses survived the decomposition of the corpses they were on, of course - and showed us that knights wore skirts (big girls they were with their saintly puppets and all...).

I leave you with a photo of the aforementioned taberna opposite las Huelgas... where we ate yummilicious "huevos estrellados".

Day 8 - Wonderful Burgos

2010-08-29T14:27:00.000Z

Fell asleep; too comfy, room too nice and too quiet, so now I'll fill in the bits of the rest of the day.

The Médulas were defo a landscape hit and they also allowed us to get lost through some fun little twisty roads. One of the surprising qualities of the landscape was that there was a lot of greenery and wet muddy grounds all over the place thanks to the blessed shadow of the contorted chestnut trees that populated the area. It seems that in the autumn they close the park for two weeks or so so that the locals can gather the "castañas" for the products they prepare: from "cocido con castañas" to all kinds of sweets.

Anyway, once we were out of the place and rolling on the motorway, the landscape started morphing slowly into wonderful planes of ochre and yellow patches littered with fractal brick villages (of the one-bell-tower or two-bell-towers kind depending on the wealth of the medieval Lord - which would include the presence of a Castilian castle - or the wealth of their trade - cereal, wine...). Another wonderful feature was the wind turbines, great wind farms scattered along the sometimes monotonous landscape, adorning the far horizons of pure blue and foggy grey. Even the road saw a wealth of lorries carrying the humungous blades for the turbiens and other bits and pieces to build yet more of the modern windmills. No wonder Don Quixote thought these lands were populated by giants.

This would have blown D. Quixote's mind (just a little bit more)

A river, at last, green and fresh

So, we got to Burgos, big town, small river with wide green banks, bridges, broad shaded and elegant promenades, old style bookshops, antiquarian cafés, multicolored squares and a white and beautifully imposing cathedral to which al roads lead. Its musical portico is one to behold, as are many of the other details carved on its different sides.

To the Cathedral

Wowness in white

We walked around and upwards (again!) to the castle, to see the sunset and enjoy a bit of music. The touristy "chu-chu" train followed us so it could have been an idea to hop on, but Phil mentioned the words "rather dead than seen in...", so sod his foot sores, little pilgrim, you'll be flip-flopping through the town on your own two pretty legs (the photo of the beblistered chap complaining on the portico sums up the idea quite well).

Going up to the castle

... he acquired some blisters ...

... but got to admire the sunset.

Our hotel, La Puebla, located in the street of the same name, was a little jewel. For 74€ we had a stylish place in the centre of the town; well equipped, huge bed where you can easily lose your partner, very quite despite the works outside, lovely decor and toilet (individual light on top of the shower to give your mornings that lovely feeling). Breakfast wasn't anything special but staff were very helpful and despite not having a record of our reservation - I'm sure I called! - they were able to find us a place. Parking was full at hotel so we left the car two minutes away in the Plaza Mayor parking (at 14€ per night, it was fair enough).

Another highlight of the visit was the food. Despite the slow and moody service (maybe we weren't posh enough?), the food served at the "urban taberna" La Favorita was wonderful: tempura of artichokes, most lovely veggies, skewered fillet steak for Phil and "callos" with fried egg for me (yummy!). Somehow we managed to get lost on the way back and to get soaked in the hot and sudden storm that fell all through the night.

... and with some yummy food, until the next stage, our bellies and souls are filled to the brim.

Day 7 - August, almost a year ago at Las Médulas

2010-08-08T17:24:00.006Z

Right: we have spent the weekend with the family and Phil has survived - he has even been showing off his Spanish skills, "bonding" with my dad and my mum. The "bonding with my dad" bit was enforced by the fact that the sofa Phil was sitting on broke under him (who ate all the pies? or should I say... who ate all the "empanadillas"?). The rest of the bonding was due to the swimming pool where the three of them splashed, floated and swam (maybe it is Free Willy rather than Moby Dick...hum, sounds so wrong).

My dad's b'day went well - everyone ate lots of ridiculously overpriced fish - and Phil and I got by on a tiny ration of "raxo". Then, the next day, lunch with my grandad in Phils favourite "hood"; Barrio de las Flores. Such was his involvement in the events, that he got to finish his thumping big book in the 2 days.

So, loads of extended coffee and "sobremesa" with the family, beer with friends and steak for dinner at home with mum and dad (they had bought enough steak to feed a small army). And then, on the road again to Las Médulas, the range of Roman gold mines set in the frontier between Galicia and Castilla León.

The motorway to the place was empty, so it took us around two hours and a half to get there. Then, after some discrepancies with the sat nav, we got to the parking and there, wisely covered ourselves in suncream and donned our hats, as it was as hot as hell: 1 pm at Las Médulas in August was like the wild wild west, above all with the amazing red crags, mountains,c aves and random formations which crop up in every corner, as in the Valley of the Gods in Denver - with a Latin flavour.

We ate my granny's empanadillas under a chestnut tree - thank god for those! The difference in temperature between shadow and sun was certainly noticeable. We did walk around 2 km., taking the short route to two of the main caves; La Cuevona and La Encantada, and that was long enough to make me believe I had acquired a new ailment: sudden death caused by walking exertion. I sooo need to get fit...

After a fresh Coke in a rather shady touristy bar, we drove to the Mirador de Orellán. Making sure up there that we left the car parked with lots of handbrake, we walked the longest 0.6 km to the top...

(are we there yet?)

Thankfully, there was an absolutely worth and amazing view from the end of the road over the whole conglomerate of the Médulas. An amazing eerie landscape of red and green, the leftovers, shreds and bits left of a majestic mountain eroded and exploded by hand, with water, by the Romans. Next time we visit the Médulas, perhaps just going to the Mirador can do the trick - you can even visit one of the galleries inside the mountain there, but itwas closed for lunch. Nevertheless, avoid visiting the place from 13:00 to 15:00; no wonder it is a desert! (green, but desert nevertheless).

Day 5 - last leg of the first part of our trip

2010-07-11T20:42:00.008Z

Alevia was like travelling back in time. The evening amusement for the villagers seemed to be to check out the new stallion "in the hood" in the main square (plot of grass with big tree in the middle), and then went for a chato de vino in the only bar in the village. The horse was still there in the morning; they had found a snug strip of grass for him next to the old church... on the best spot with a view. He has now been immortalised in one of the photos our our trip, see below, taken by Phil as I was not on photographing mood.

... and this was the view behind him...

So, when we woke up, the skies had cleared and we could ascertain that we were certainly pretty high up (as per the photo above). The view still magnificent, the bill fine (85€ for our room and a magnificent yummy brekkie was pretty fair), the car still there, waiting for us, and the day lovely...

Thus, we set off towards Galicia. Curvy road on the way down from Alevia and curvy road all through the mountains - we have GPS photo to prove the crazy orography of the area.

Phil loved the drive, I endured it (not feeling too well). Through amazing crevasses, cut by rivulets and wild plants, some of walls surrounding us were sweating water and moss. The rock was grey, white, reddish at times, and stood up in the worst climber-defying of shapes.

The view from the mirador at Poo de Cabrales - chosen because I thought it would be fine to take Phil to a place called "poo"... childish but ever so endearing... - was rather incredible. The vertical panettone of the Naranco de Bulnes, highest mountain of the peaks and one of the highest in Spain, appeared surrounded by other mountains and valleys, and the walls around it were spotted with caves and specks of snow... lovely!

From there, we were supposed to go to the Cuevas del Agua, to see the Cuevona, where you can drive through a natural tunnel, but somehow the GPS missed the trick and directed us straight away to the motorway - maybe it was trying to tell us something.

My mum had told us to get to Coruna by 3 so that we could go out on the boat with my uncle. Only that our planned time of arrival was 6, so we declined the invitation. Somehow, though, the kilometres seemed to fly past with the lovely view of the sea on one side and the mountains on the other, with the damn heat falling on us and my resilient wish to keep the roof of the car put in place as shelter... ah, the heat, the heat, too much to bear - and yes, I would have also complained had it been raining.

So, somehow, we drove so quickly and my uncle was so late that we did get to Coruna for four ish and he was waiting for us on the boat, but at that stage I was feeling so ill that as soon as I stepped on the pontoons at the port, all the world seemed to just be moving too much, so we just touched base on Santa Cruz, in the lovely new house specially kitted for us by my mum, while my sister, friend, and uncle, boated along.

As soon as I got home, I went straight to bed (it didn't move, yay!), Phil got to wash the car, drive my mum around (she adored the little car), then he swam with my parents in the swimming pool (a scene worthy of Moby Dick) and seemingly, my uncle and co. on the boat got to the middle of nowhere in the ocean and had to be rescued as they run out of petrol... so am glad we didn't join them.

Day 4 - Further along the North of Spain (careful, kittens enclosed)

2010-06-29T07:45:00.015Z

We got up, had brekkie at the hotel - lovely coffee at last, after the thoroughly burnt stuff served in France. Then we walked into town, found the Musikene, where my sister studies in a really well located park with views over the bay (beautiful building too... described as an English style cottage but Phil could not see any Englishness in it).

Trying to find the Musikene on the map (behind me, duh!)

We knew there was the possibility to hire segways so we tracked down the shop: this took us to the market, to paseo de Salamanca and toashop with designer stuff - very nice kitchenware we thought...nope, it was not kitchenware, it was dildos of all shapes. Found the segway shop but 25€ for one hour was too much so we settled for yet another coffee overlooking the Kursaal, in the café at the theatre, next to the hotel we didn't go to, the Maria Cristina (thanks for the offer, dad,but 350€ per night is too much for what the room seemed to be). Finally, we visited the centre and walked back to the car park stopping in a mock English pub which happened to have better pintxos than the other places!

Lovely old fashioned shop, found on the way

The drive to Asturias was great. We stopped at Getaria and it certainly did not disappoint us. Home to Elcano, first to circumnavigate the globe, it was a sunny fishing port with twisty scenic roads and the softest and hottest of sands at it s feet. We didn't have the time to have a swim as in La Rochelle, but we took our shoes off and after skipping like fleas to the sea - yeah, the sand was very very hot, don't you believe me? - we walked through the waterline feeling awfully overdressed and getting some looks from the people on the beach. Was it our tan? Was it our "I'm so much of a tourist" casual style? Was it the fear of us taking photos of their boobs? Some of the people were possibly on the road to having rather wrinkly and raisin-like appendages or all sorts of skin cancer with such exposure to the sun at three in the afternoon. And no, we were not interested in photographing them, only the beauty of the day.

On the coastal road

Getaria

So, after the boobs and monuments of all shapes, we kept on driving, this time on the toll road which snaked through high mountains and wonderful seascapes. Phil thoroughly enjoyed playing with the car on the winding road and I didn't enjoy it that much (scenery was great but corners were too tight).

And, after the roads and roads, we find ourselves in the wonderful "Casona D'Alevia" (clicky for great photos of the house) hidden in a hamlet on the top of a mountain. At the moment we don't how high -or not -this and the mountains surrounding us are, as the clouds are covering them, but we took some scenic photos - of the mountains and the lovely locals (3 cats with flat faces that seemed interested in our movements).

We are somewhere up there

... I mean, up here (spot the tourist)...

... and in here (little window to the garden at the Casona)

The hotel and bedroom are so nice, decorated in ye olde style from the village, that we have decided to stay here, get a platter of cold meat and a bottle of wine and eat it in the small living room within our room. I may also mention that, at this stage, some parts of our body are showing sure signs of a tan. Phil is also developing a lovely colour in his driving arms. Bellies remain as white and big as usual. Unfortunately, these do not seem to have disappeared magically after three days of holidays.

I leave you with a photo of the "locals"... who looked positively evil...

...and who were coming to get us...

... but then completely lost interest...

Day 3 - In Donostia / San Sebastian

2010-06-13T18:42:00.008Z

Well; yesterday then... We got to Donostia. It was a bit of a traffic nightmare since the centre is very busy and may of its streets were closed due to the Fiesta Grande.... that, and the suicidal tourists and locals that decided to take their chances at a "tete-a-tete" with our pretty car.

We loved the landscape on the way here: we didn't have the time to stop at Hondarribia, which we only glimpsed from afar (and which looked lovely, perched on the side of a mountain over the sea). Pasaia, industrial port with the most incredible plunging and green fjord, and then Donostia, also mountainous with two great beaches, a cycling and walking town full of lovely French style buildings.

This is a country of cyclists; despite the enormous slopes, all our trip in the Basque country was dotted by semi-pro cyclists, many just kids training, the Indurains of the future, going steadily up hill without flinching.... oh, and, of course, one should also mention the all prevailing frontones for Pelota Vasca & cesta (canasta? dunno). In fact, we also spotted a couple of bullring dotted between cyclists and frontones. There were quite a number of ads for bullfights which gave us the impression the French Basque were a bit crazier than the Spanish Basque for toros.

(from our room)

My dad had proposed to pay for the Hotel Maria Cristina, favoured by the VIPs of the Cinema events that take place in Donostia on a yearly basis... the price though made us cough more than once, so I spared him the pocket pain by choosing something cute, not in the middle of the town and slightly different.

Our room in Hotel La Galería has just got views of the beach, situated under Monte Igueldo it is pretty much away from town, but that can only be a good thing given the mayhem of people down there. There's a lovely seaside walk that allows you to reach the other mountain in around twenty minutes walking, so it is not too bad. Parking was an absolute nightmare due to the "R" (resident) areas and the very-keen-to-fine traffic wardens which were on full bloom. Unfortunately the hotel had less than adequate parking space (as in, almost no space!) for parking, so we were too late to blag a little spot there. We got the Dali room and our views on the sea are thanks to the fact that the building next door was demolished at some point, yay!!!

(not the luxury of Hotel Mria Cristina but check out the angelical sleepy face!)

For dinner we walked to the old town - with the rest of the town it seems, as the streets were packed. On the beach, the people were busily hiring chairs and sitting looking to the same point. We could not fathom what all that was about until we got to the end of the promenade, closed an surrounded by police guarding mysterious black containers, like little urns, closed with tin foil which were... FIREWORKS! Seeing the amount of explosive material stored there, it was going to be a damn big display. As part part of the Semana Grande, the council brings on each day of the week a different firework team from Valencia and Castellón. Also, on the promenade, there were lots of music shows, many put on by the council... a full regalia of events all around us.

(here's a photo from somewhere over the promenade - starting to get gloomy)

The firewroks were just great; Phil thought the show would last five minutes or so, so when we got off the taxi that took us back to hour hotel - with a very informed driver who just told us the story of every single building on our way - he did not bother really to run to the seaside to watch them; ah, thou were lacking faith, my friend, Semana Grande fireworks should be of at least one hour, which was the case... so we had time to go and sit out with the rest of Donostia, on the beach.

All in all, quite a nice end of the day, apart from the pintxos; crowded, greasy and disappointing. Of course we didn't go to the best pintxos places because they were too crowded (the guide seemed to mention that the crowded ones were the best, of course, but if they are crowded, how the hell are you to reach the food?). I got to taste the "txacoli", typical drink which was basically the same as a slightly sparkly white wine. It was a bit of a shame as I had expected to find some sort of cathedral of food, but ended up in a repetition of Calle de la Estrella (if you are from Coruna, you'll know). Ah, and before I forget, we also saw a pasacalles with cabezudos who were hitting the public with pig's bladders. So I had to take Phil away before he reacted violently - can you imagine him trying to K.O. a cabezudo? - and we hid at the door of the church of San Sebastian, a very fitting name for the town, of course.

So I will leave you there, imagine us both hiding away in a portico while the scary cabezudos just did what they do best and Phil got really annoyed at this display of traditional stuff that would not go down well in the UK. Next day, a bit more Donostia and then on the road again!

Day 3 - sleepy thoughts from the car

2010-06-04T08:09:00.004Z

So I left you a long time ago on "Day 3" on the road... well, as in ON a surface, which happened to be a ROAD but not implying any movement ON/AT/ACROSS/THROUGH or anywhere else that surface... and there you were thinking that we were cruising through winding glorious national roads that snake between sea and mountain...

Yes; it was my idea to take the scenic detour, but I had not taken on account the fact that these were the roads that took the populace to the sea and that this populace would be formed of southern French and Spaniards driving like nutters and making sure that they left a lingering souvenir of crap traffic behind.

But again I am jumping ahead of myself; I left the last page somewhere near Bordeaux, when the heat was still semi-bearable and the landscape too. Such was the itch of the sun on my skin that I had to beg Phil to put the roof up - anathema for the convertible driver: what? a ray of sun and the roof still on?. I wrapped myself in a towel as I am pretty sure that even though factor fifty cream may keep cancer away from you - and any possi

ble suitors - it does not keep your skin from feeling the burning sensation; only a further piece of clothing (and a thick one at that) can accomplish this, and, alas, I had none.

The landscape of the Landes was so dull that, adding to the long straight dull road and the dull slap of the heat, I dull-y spent most of the trip nodding off and feeling as if someone had hit me with a shovel.

Such is the feeling of my eyes at the moment; not a shovel but a teaspoon, on each eye, going "pock" when hitting, and thus I should sleep, so I will tell you about the Basque bullfight, the mountain, the coast, the crap traffic, the worse traffic and the arrival to Donostia a bit later on as, at the moment, I am falling asleep!

p.s. the road through the Landes was so mindumbingly boring and the landscape so unbelievably dull that here's a photo of geese and their geeslings to entertain you and cheer you up till the next report .

Day 3 - On the road to Donostia

2010-04-22T20:57:00.009Z

Mission accomplished; day 2 is over. Woke up at seven, had a bath in our colonial bathtub, overlooked by photos of uptight XIXth century families including scary fat baby with white hat and dress. We went up to the Café la Paix and the 6€ brekkie surrounded by a bunch of old locals who were reading their newspapers, discussing about politics, sipping their cafés and generally pursing their lips á la francaise.

(this was the side overlooking the street, the locals were shunning the sun, well at the back)

A wonderful lamp most suitable for early morning illumination

voici our 6€ breakfast; bigger than the table we were sitting at

Once fed, we plodded over the ramparts and voilá the beach des .......... (not too sure), all for ourselves - well, and for the rest of people there, but we were just a few, less than 20 total as it was quite early still; total heaven

I ventured in the water and managed to convince Phil to follow. It is not that he dislikes water; he was jealously watching me paddle and float (at the height of my technique in swimming - almost like my mum's) but he had forgotten his swimming costume. Not sure whether he got the "we are going to the beach" bit this morning. So, we proceeded to get his trousers off, underwear off, modesty covered by towel, like in that epic chapter from Mr Bean, then put his shorts again (trousers) and voilá, swimming costume ready. He did swim to the buoy and I guess his pockets did get quite full of water, but it was well worth it.

Ou yea, this is the view I couldn't see while swimming because I'm blind as a bat.

So, back to the hotel, quickly washed the sand off, tidied the sea shells gathered for friends, packed and, well, off we went, with a baguette and saucisson in the boot for the next "aire" and currently roasting in the car (not sure if the factor 50 cream is going to work... such hardship)

Bye bye Maison du Palmier, bye bye La Rochelle, and hello road!

Day 2 (part 3) - really, still La Rochelle

2010-04-08T20:21:00.010Z

Not everything is about food in that town. Let's step back a little bit; we leave the tracteurs, special transports with thumping big pieces of stuff , the thumping big lorries and other sundry slow cars on D roads that should have been N roads, and recall our entrance in the town... Tourists crossing the road - death wish - bicycles crossing - death wish II - and Brit tourists on the wrong lane (Phil still says he was "only" avoiding the bus lane, which is a crap cover-up story).

So, our first impression of the town, despite the traffic chaos was pretty good; summer feeling, white paved streets with white classical buildings, beautiful port and a great Bed and Breakfast... "La Maison du Palmier" (linky). Great location, great taste; we are in the Chambre du Voyageur, 95€ a pop, rez de chaussée, windows facing the lovely courtyard garden and the street... but oh so quiet). Lovely compendium of XIXth century traveller paraphernalia in the most lovely room (lovely x 3, yes, I did notice the repetition). By the way, the hat is ours.

Le hat on ze bed

Le 'appy voyageur

Le courtyard

So, even though the piccies are self-explanatory, let me tell you about the room. If I turn my head to the left from the bed, there's the bathtub, visible through a window on the wooden partition that separates bedroom space from hand basin and bagnoire - loo is on separate closet, thankfully. This reminds me of the wondrous and very comfy tents that colonial travellers used to set up on their posh safaris - bit round or square yugurta with draperies over wooden four poster and proper English bathtub carried to camp on the back of long suffering elephants, or camels, or slaves... Open the curtains, and voila le courtyard, all silent, but full of light. Niiiice...

We are located next to the port, parallel to a pedestrianized street full of lovely looking restaurants. As you know if you read the previous installment, we ended up having dinner somewhere else, in the Rue des Bonnes Femmes, who were bien sur neither dames nor nuns - confirmed by the sex shop in the same address.

So, historic / holiday city checklist; port (tick), good food (tick), wonderful white houses (tick), old town with old houses (tick), cathedral (tick), and of course great bemirrored café, at Place Verdun, host to many writers' débats (as a French café should be, Simenon et alia discussing stuff over a croissant) with a cinema at the back. Reminds me of that café in Lisbon where I am sure Pereira used to have his lemonades ("Sostiene Pereira" always a wonderful book). And this, ladies and gents, is the coffee place where we will be having brekkie tomorrow, for 6.80€, so check this space.

Day 2 (part 3) La Rochelle at last! (one for the foodies)

2010-02-20T15:37:00.012Z

Yes, you may be wondering... what a long day.

Having lost the argument of to toll or not to toll, we took the N road that then was declassified to D road, D-137; either our road map was wrong or the road had been very very naughty. This gave Phil the opportunity to drive properly i.e. to overtake tracteurs, cows, Brits on holidays and those ever so prevalent F numberplate Finns that you can find all over the place.

The fun stopped when we got stuck in traffic "exceptionnel" at Les Marais for a long, long, long, long time... now this was one long, long, long vehicle that Phil could not overtake - now we know how wind turbine blades are transported. Nevertheless, the sun had actually come out and we had the chance to enjoy the open top again, blast the music and monkey around singing out of tune and dancing like middle aged parents
.

Anyhow, we DID get to LA ROCHELLE and, man, did it feel like we were on holiday? Ohh yes! Proper mediterranean hectic "ruelles" full of tourists, cyclists, dogs, random cars, big "Yello" buses, ourselves driving on the wrong lane...

Zis is a photo from the car (thus lack of lustre)

Zis is ze port, check out the summer feeling!

Once all that jazz was overcome, we got to find the hotel. Again, thank the gods for the sat-nav, as it would have been impossible to find it so straightforwardly without it. In fact, it happened to be that corner house with a wall and a palm tree that we had driven past at least a couple of times. To my surprise, this hotel, well, B&B, is located two streets away from the port and it is a most wonderful jewel. But I will talk about the B&B later on... because not only did we find a fab place to stay, we also did find a fab place to have dinner in!

The place is "Restaurant Ô5" http://www.o5restaurant.fr/ located in the merrily named...

So, Phil had:
- Aumoniére (purse) de Mignon de Porc, Vinaigre de tomate et Sirop d'Erable
- Boeuf poelé, reduction de bearnaise au basicil et tombee de Girolles.

I had:
- Gaspacho de pasteque , faln de Parmesan et Pistil de Safran (I had to ask the waiter what pasteque was, in perfect french, so I though I was a bit special needs, looked at me with a blank french face and then, with very subdued arm movement and pursed mouth tried to mimic the shape of a watermelon - could have been football gazpacho if you ask me! I only found out what it was when the soup arrived)
- Pavé de veau, mille feuilles de champignons et coulis de tomate a l'huile d'olive.
(and yes, we thought they would charge us per word used)

Et voilá, ze funky whatsit "gaspacho"

Phil's verdict: starter better than mine, pork sweet, balsamicky, oniony, pastry just on the spot - very thin but not dry.
My verdict: Phil thinks the starter's cheese flan was superbly light; I think it killed very "almost not there" watermelon gazpacho - which was a surprise of a fruity soup.

Mains: meat-wise, Phil preferred the veal, but his mushrooms were just very surprising, lovely texture and flavour... they came in a stack with a roof of paillette potatoes. The dish came with carrots; very peppery and with some green thing that we are not sure how to describe... it was... green... very green... alien green... even shaped like an UFO, in green... madeleine au "basil".

My main; veal very nicely cooked, the mushroom paste in the millefeuille was very creamy - took me a while to realise what it was. Crown-shaped roast potatoes and a nest of threaded raw beetroot (well, purple thing that tasted of raw vegetable).

No puds but nice wine from the region "Thierry Jullion 2007", Charentain.

The restaurant itself had a lovely minimalistic industrial design, with a garage-like indoors, lots of empty space, open airy well fitted kitchen and secret garden at the back. Very handsome toilet in white and purple, stylish and unisex.

Night menu comes up to 28€ x 3 dishes,, which is good value for the different, innovative & young product it offers. Fun menu display despite the typos in Spanish grammar and hey, including some sections in Latin. Funky artwork on the walls.

As a complimentary mouth opener, we got some goat's cheese mousse with almond and honey in a shot glass. I tried it and liked it; could be described as a "whiff" of a goat which disappeared in seconds - which sounds awful - and then came back for the wine - naughty goat.

And to finish the restaurant plug, here's photo of the entrance in case you are in La Rochelle and want to find it. Just a piece of advice, dress slightly better than us, as we did stand out like sore thumbs in that place with our scruffy tourist gear.

... So... 85€ lighter (plus the overly generous tip we left) and also under the influence of spirits (of the alcoholic kind, don't go about thinking a XVIth century freemason has taken over my body and is scribbling in undecypherable cryptic freemason hand - actually, maybe he has! I don't make any sense!), I will duly continue my report on the rather middle aged and middle class adventures of us two in "ze" continent on the next post, as digestion time beckons.

Bonne nuit, mes cheris, and remember that blog time is flexible and never real, so we may remain on day 2 for a couple of weeks more!

Day 2 (Part 2)

2010-01-06T12:23:00.003Z

On the Road to La Rochelle

We had envisaged this to be a bucolic ride through France, baguette et saucisson en main on the road. Like Jack Kerouac with a gallic twist. Having visited the "airs" (truck stops or translate it at leisure) next to the toll motorway, we were losing hope: the food provision was pretty much as in the UK - crap overpriced sandwiches (and of course, Lion bars), no saucisson, no bread.

But ho! we found a détour to a Super U, and even though we détoured a bit too much, we eventually found a cheaper petrol station and, another détour en plus, got to the blasted Super U market and, like true tourists - besandalled, behatted, bewildered - threw ourselves on the bread and saucisson (and cheese, and cake) counter, and had a just passable coffee for the wunderbar amount of 1€ each accompanied by the sweet chimes of supermarket muzak.

Rather than eating our victuals in the parking lot, surrounded by bemused native children who were possibly not that familiar with the sight of a not-very-battered two seater with an open top, we decided to drive down to the next "aire" and organize "une pique-nique". We found such "aire" but the three tables were taken by three caravans - greedy buggers, don't you have tables inside your recreational vehicles? - so had our pique-nique on the grassy kerb. Don't get the wrong idea; it was lovely, quiet and clean.

(told you I was wearing a hat)

We continued with the inside (and rather puerile) joke that every "F" numberplate was for Finland and marvelled at the state of the Finn cars - ever so popular around this part of the world: du Citroen, du Peugeot, du Sacré-Bleu et du "tracteur" (saw a couple of those) at the height of fashion. On the while, the car seats are getting whiter and whiter with the rub of the factor-gazillion suncream we duly splatter on our just-not-that-bronzed-yet skins, and my handwriting is, as always, like a demented tourist's scribble on a Wish You Were Here card. I blame Phil.
[yes, these posts were written with pen and paper - not that you can see it.]

Some miles further, in Nantes, we see a big "GREVE DU LAIT" written in white, possibly in milk itself, on the side of a tractor. This confirms our worse fears; the French cows are certainly taking industrial action!

You can see we are bored; Phil has won the "to toll or not to toll" debate by choosing "not to toll", and I can only happily agree, as this saves me 7€. This is why we are now stuck behind a row of caravans and understand why the continental motorways are sooo empty.

Been There Done That - Day 2

2009-11-08T20:28:00.007Z

DAY 2 (part I)

Even though we were right on the Grande Rue, we fell asleep pretty easy. Lots of anxious dreams regarding whether the alarm clock was on or not and Phil's nighmare about having a conference call, mean we aren't yet quite switched off. Phil discovered mobile phones turn themselves on for the alarm clock even though they are turned off (he wouldn't believe me but voilá, the wonders of technology), and he also discovered that the Euro bank notes are not decorated with a puffer fish in the north west section of the map (yes, that's Iceland...).

So wake up for our second day of holidays. We were the first ones for brekkie in a bakery right opposite our window. We sat indoors to avoid the rain and were besieged by cheeky sparrows that would come and wait patiently for us to finish off our toast to jump at the crumbs. They are all over the place, used to entering shops and restaurants alike, perched in groups on the walls, pecking for bugs.

Once us and the sparrows were fed, we queued under the rain for half an hour to enter the Abbey. Nothing compared with the amount of time other people had to wait for later on.

The inside of the Mont's Abbey was as amazing as we expected it. Entrance €8.50 each plus audio guides for €6 - this forced us to stop and look at things.

The day was overcast so the view of the bay was somehow even more striking with the patches of sun and cloud covering everything in dull or bright light.

I took quite a number of photos so we may have to "cleanse" the camera card later on in the trip. We also saw the tide go up, slowly covering sand islands and creating whirpools.

We left the Mont before the throngs of tourists blocked the Grande Rue again and are now driving through the - grey and rainy - countryside laughing at the very lazy cows which seem to always be having a siesta under trees or in the corners of fields. They surely must be on strike, á la francaise. Lots of Calvados farms and rooms / zimmer ads, but pretty views despite the stench of manure - one of the downsides of open-top driving is that you get the smells in stereo...

Been there Done That - Day 1

2009-10-31T19:25:00.022Z

DAY 1

Our plants will be dead when we return, but this holiday is well worth the life of the couple of semi-defunct cacti that are decorating our mantelpiece.

We woke up at 5 (figure that, I didn't even have to be kicked out of the bed for this), got on the road at 6 with the sun, and eventually arrived to Dover well before our ferry was due.

On the road from home to the port, the fog was so thick, it could have been sliced with a knife and spread on toast. After half an hour of cautious driving in the foggiest of fogs, somewhere in Surrey the "intelligent" panels on the road kindly reminded us motorists that there was some sort of fog hazard around (thanks for the tip, guys). In the deep haze, the sun looked spooky and unreal, like a round cheese floating in the sky, slowly changing colour to a potent yellow disk. No wonder the Mayans had the jitters every time the heavenly bodies behaved funny, on a day like this they would have been rushing to their pyramids to start a sacrifice binge.

Still, Dover did receive us with less and less of that fog, and we were able to check out the famous white cliffs (I had been banging about this for a long time now and can tick the box of being there and doing that at last). Unfortunately, only the white cliffs were worth it; Dover, at least the way to the port, was ehm....

... nice or what?

Of course we were not sorry to leave the country after this view. Do they do it on purpose to discourage immigration? We hoped things looked brighter, warmer, nicer on the other side. And well, they did start looking much better from the boat... white cliffs bye byeeee!

We reached Calais in 2 hours; long flat beaches, blue sea, concrete blocks & towers... just like a Spanish seaside resort in grey. In fact, right after the big sign indicating CALAIS (in case you had gotten on the wrong boat), we were welcome by the wonderful view of "BooZers, Spirit of Calais" a shopping centre designed for the classy tourist.

Yes, it didn't look any prettier on the other side. Thankfully, the road took us away from the concrete-hole of Calais avoiding as much of it as possible. And now it did start feeling like a holiday - roof down, warm weather, tidy fields of grain with big rolled-up, lined-up, stacks of hay, and long, straight, empty motorways. Finding our way was so smooth that we wondered how travel was possible before the advent of the Tom-Tom. Kinder Bueno & Lion Bar for lunch (melted before reaching the mouth).

After the absolute rip-off péage (for the long empty motorways aforementioned), we hit Le Havre. Not as horrendous as Calais, jewel of the crown, only because it seems like a functional industrial port - thus with industrial stuff, not masqueraded with a sheen of cheapo tourist make-up. Also, extra points to it for not having a BooZer supermarket for its most wonderful bridge (rip-off part 2 but wonderful structure!)

(20 degrees; 13:45, 5€ to cross)

Stopped for petrol just before the entrance of Le Havre 52€ for a life-saving tankfull of the black stuff - we had just depleted the last drop in the tank! Phil changed to flip-flops and decided to drive bare-footed, what a hippie. Also noted the unmanliness of wearing sea-sickness bracelets, but better safe than sorry!

Further péage and all the cows seem to be sleeping siestas under trees, thirsty for the shadow, what a life.

We arrived pretty fast to Mt. St. Michel; not worth stopping anywhere around a motorway anyway. In fact, we arrived early than predicted so the 1 hour queueing to get from one side of the parking to the other side and our specific spot didn't bother us that much. Of course finding our spot took us a couple of "bon, bof, behs" with pouted mouth from the parking attendants who were more concerned about their cigarettes than sorting the stagnant traffic situation.

We enjoyed the majestic presence of the Mont over our heads and the priceless people spotting (all the annoying ones were Mediterraneans, doh!). Then, it took us almost another hour to find the hotel - well, me running up and down the alleys and stairs in the Mont, which are many and of different shapes and widths, fighting against the hordes of baby prams, slow tourists, old tourists, tourists taking photos and tourists choosing cards or calling Manolo!!! while blocking the road, and Phil sitting with the luggage in a corner.

Granted, I should have known where I was going, planned as I had all the trip, but so it happens that to get the key to our room we had to go to a hotel which was not our hotel (get it?) and then they would give us they key and show us the way... which was through a shop, through the shop's back door, trawling through dresses and corridors full of boxes, and up a spiral and dark staircase.

So, seeing the "magnificent" entrance, I was already expecting the worse. And, voilá, our room, in a sort of turret whose entry is actually at the very top of the Mont (well, almost under the abbey), you just have to get lost a bit to find it, then go down some quirky stairs and alleys, and before you get to the cemetery, a little door: Logis St. Sebastian; go downstairs to the bottom through that spiral staircase (yes, the one that ended in the backroom of a shop), and there we were! On a room facing the main street (I feel like opening the window and emptying the contents of the bedpan on the tourists), so narrow one can almost see inside the rooms of the building opposite, the Hotel le Mouton Blanc (in fact, the main hotel, where you get the key for the Logis - are you lost yet?).

Hurray! found the door!

And this is the street leading from our place to the main street...

So, Le Mouton Blanc, we didn't try their food but had a lovely lunch on a terrace on the remparts, well, dinner, for 18€ each, not bad! And the room was 55€ which is pretty good for a night at the heart of the Mont (hey, tick the box, been there done that).

Unfortunately, we are too tired to see the Mont lit up (well, it was past nine and it wasn't getting dark, so we just gave up). We feel like an elderly couple, flossing our teeth together in a room with separate beds, at 9.30 in the evening and all ready to go to bed and... sleep. Sod the lights on the Mont, we are not made for such adventures, and the stairs are a killer. Still, we love this place, room big, clean, well located, big bathroom with the basics (in wonderful seventies blue), high beamed ceilings, fireplace (not working, of course), crap telly in a corner and bargain price. Plus, add the charm of being hidden away in a secluded tower and the fact that you can spit at tourists from your window and they will never be able to find you. Bargain!

So, night night, leave you with a lovely view...

OPEN QUESTION

2009-04-28T19:49:00.003Z

It is bugging me.... I've asked in Twitter but no reply yet

SYLAR vs. SPOCK, face to face in a duel, who'd win & how?

I've got a sort of scenario in my head, but would like to hear how you play it...

[and yes, I've got nothing better to think about than random scenarios in my head]

Inventos geniales

2008-08-31T22:18:00.005Z

Como soy un poquito de pueblo, a veces cuando voy a hoteles nuevos me sorprendo. No, no robo las toallas, pero pulso todos los botones, abro todos los botes, me como todas las galletas y me hago más tés de los que son humanamente necesarios sólo porque son gratis.

El fin de semana pasado fuimos a un bodorrio (y sigue sumando) y nos quedamos en el hotel de rigor. Allí, en el cuarto de baño reluciente (menos en las esquinas y los halógenos, que tenían vida alrededor de la bombillita), tenían un espejo tremebundo con una "feature" que a mí más bien me parecía un adorno en forma de tostada... era un "espejo antivaho"!. Vamos, que en vez de empañarlo con la toalla para poder verte el careto (o usar el secador para eliminar el vaho, como hacemos los más refinados), el espejo, te mantenía la zona en la que supuestamente te ves la cara, limpia de todo resto de neblina post-baño.

El invento suena genial, verdad? Sólo hay un problema, y es que el diseñador / currito que instaló / diseñó el espejo debía de ser muy alto, porque como pueden ver, estimados amigos, no se me ve ni el careto ni el cogote, vamos, que para ponerme la sombra de ojos me tuve que subir a una banqueta... y sí, no soy tan alta como el amigo Paulorf, pero tampoco soy una chinchetilla...

Stupid anti-mist mirrors... can you spot the slight design problem?

Illustration Friday - Canned

2008-07-26T10:37:00.002Z

... all feelings inside and ready to explode...

Enough!

2008-07-21T21:13:00.005Z

I drew my wabbit on Wednesday, he has decided to overcome his fears, those little things that we create, crippling us in life, a beast to the self. Enough!

Morriña?

2008-07-11T12:08:00.006Z

Pues qué envidia, que manhana mismo empieza el festival de Ortigueira. Por lo menos la lluvia torrencial, el frío asqueroso y los cielos plomizos mantienen el "feeling" aquí en la isla de la Gran Patranha, y las gaitas siempre las puede escuchar una en la radio (o se llevan en la cabeza).

Es en momentos como estos, cuando un evento de relevancia está ocurriendo "back home" y que en realidad tú te has enterado sólo de potra (por escuchar la radio en el internete), en los que uno se da cuenta de lo lejos que se está de casa.

No, no, no es que me haya entrado la morriña, pero los eventos que marcan el paso del tiempo o las distintas temporadas del año, tal y como los conozco, aquí no existen.

De ahí que, por ejemplo, me enterase de que España ganó la Eurocopa a través del camarero de aquí del curro, que es Portugués, sólo porque en vez de decir "buenos días" me vino a abrazar emocionado diciendo "congratulations!". La verdad es que tardé unos segundos en caer en la cuenta (después de estrujarme el cerebro pensando "no estoy embarazada, no me caso, no me ha tocado la lotería... aaaaah, el fútbol"). Si hubiese estado en casa me habría enterado quisiese o no, y eso que chez moi el futbol es anatema.
La emoción del Portugués se debia, a todo esto, a que España había "vengado" a los de su terruño contra los malvados alemanes...

San Juan... pasado por agua, ni playa, ni hoguera ni sardinas (a ellas no las eché de menos).

Los San Fermines... aquí oscurecidos por el luto del 7/7, pero vamos, que no hubo ni una mención en el periódico de la fiesta favorita de Hemingway y de la mitad de los patranhosos estos. De hecho, la foto del día no era el chupinazo ni nada por el estilo, sino "a rapa das bestas"!!! (me dieron ganas de darles las gracias a los del periódico)

Por lo menos me entero de las navidades y el fin de año, claro que lo de comerse las uvas con el Big Ben es una mierda pinchá en un palo (hablando mal y claro) ya que siempre cortan el sonido de las campanadas en la tele para poner los petardos...

Pues eso, que se está muy lejos de la empanada, de los pimientos de padrón (aunque este año encontré una bolsa huérfana en el Waitrose) y de los "malacatones" como dice mi abuelo, aunque he de decir que casi se me han quitado las ganas de volver a casa a comer "all of the above" de sólo ver los precios de Clickair (y los "extras" que se han sacado de la manga... pero eso es para otro post)

Worker's Day

2008-05-01T20:54:00.003Z

To celebrate this day, 1st of May, I've just had a job interview, and, in the most democratic of fashions, it has been voting day too... Nevertheless, I can only be dismayed at the silliness of the system here. We were sent voting cards (or whatever is the name) weeks ago to our home address. To vote, we just had to take those with us, no ID, no nothing... So I voted, and given the two only options which I was given (dammned if I did, dammned if I didn't), I went ahead and gave my card, not even my name, not a single question on whether the person on the card was me or my designated proxy... no need for a photo ID, what for anyway? I could have been voting with my boyfriend's card and given him the nasty news that he had voted left wing! Anyhooo, much in my fashion, I did not have a pen and expected to find one in the polling booth... nope, there was a PENCIL! so there, my vote has been cast in fracking pencil. And at the exit, some cheerful men with blue and yellow colour asked me for my voting card, as they had to keep it... what?? He asked wheter they were intimidating, and I said, no, you are not, the six crosses I have just put in pencil are...
So... I have done my duty but I want my money back; I want choice, I want to vote in pen, not in pencil, and I want to demonstrate that it is me voting with a photo ID, in case my cousing from Mozambique decided to vote for the BNP in my name... Not that this would ever happen, but hey... Happy worker's day, bah humbug.

(de Forges - robado de por ahí)

Illustration Friday - Fail

2008-04-12T10:10:00.005Z

"ARE YOU FAILING?" That is what my other half says when I fail to open airtight pots, juice cartons, wine bottles, beer bottles, cut cheese, reach the top shelf, open the door, so on and so forth... No, I'm not a very graceful person as you may have already gathered. So, armed with my spoon and a blowtorch, here I am, facing one of my foes... the jam pot!

April's... fools....

2008-04-11T21:24:00.002Z

Aquí el día de los Santos Inocentes es en Abril... los muy tontos... creyendo que lo de la nieve era una inocentada de los de la BBC, Mr. Mannginger y yo salimos de paseo... y con esto nos encontramos...

Illustration Friday - Homage

2008-03-29T10:55:00.005Z

When IF proposed the topic "Homage", I was a bit at a loss, thinking I did not want to fall into the typical medieval chap in armour rendering homage to the lady in distress (obviously after having saved her from the dragon). What do we do homage to? Artists, events, people... And sometimes to the simplest things. We have a certain type of stew in Galicia, my homeland, "o caldo", the basic diet for most some time ago, a pleasure for others nowadays. It is what my grandad has for lunch everyday, it is what we have every now and then, and I fear, that the old recipe may be lost since to have proper "caldo" you need to be in Galicia, using Galician grown "berzas". To sum it up, I did this portrait of my dad a while ago, in deep concentration before eating a spoonful of caldo, with some nice "patacas", and the old t-shirt he uses to cook, which makes him look like a grumpy Homer Simpson. This pastel drawing is quite big, and it is not hanging from any wall at home - perhaps the likeness is too scary? - but whether he likes it or not, that is him, and that's our "caldo".

Easter

2008-03-20T20:00:00.003Z

The best thing about Easter is being able to just have a breath, lay back and think on how to survive until the summer. Organizing paperwork, cleaning the house, listening to music, reading all those books which were left unfinished, three pages away from the end... Taking advantage of the fact that we have not booked a ticket to anywhere and that, thus, we will not have to suffer in queues, public transportation or at the airport. I have first and foremost stuffed myself with chocolate this morning, and now I am happily listening to all those songs that lied forgotten in my dusty mp3 list, among which, I should mention, lies some vintage Mike Oldfield, bits and pieces of Nick Cave, and a couple of cheesy hits from A-Ha...

... jeez, I'm old...

El Diario de Miss Gonzalez XXXIII

2008-03-04T16:02:00.003Z

Pues sí, aquí se queda la cosa, mariposa. En el 33.

Miss González terminó su diario hace ya años, y desde entonces ha estado dando tumbos de clase en clase y de un lado a otro del océano, quedándose al final encallada en la isla de la Gran Patranha, en donde cada vez se sorprende de menos y menos patranhas. Sin embargo, como colofón al diario, os dejo, estimados colegas de profesión, un par de perlas de un manual de Español de aquellos tiempos de toga y regleta... claro que a cierto compañero con el que me tomo un café catártico semanalmente esto le sonará a la más pura actualidad...

Instrucciones:

I. Regular preparation of the advance lesson should be made as follows:

_a_. Reading of the text by the teacher, a sentence at a time. Each sentence to be translated by a pupil after the new words have been explained by the teacher, in Spanish if possible.

_b_. A second reading by the teacher, followed by chorus reading of theclass.

II. At home the pupil should read the text aloud several times and copy the text once or twice, then study it carefully.

Textos:

2. EL DISCÍPULO En nuestra escuela hay muchos discípulos. Carlos, Enrique y Pablo sondiscípulos. Ana, María y Elvira son discípulas. Juan es diligente.Carlos no es muy diligente. Algunas veces está muy perezoso. Elviraes más diligente que Juan. ¿Quién es más diligente, el discípulo o ladiscípula? Juan está atento y es obediente. Carlos está desatento y esdesobediente. No escucha atentamente. Cuando el maestro habla y explicaCarlos no escucha. Él no aprende nada. En muchas escuelas hay discípulosy discípulas. En algunas escuelas hay sólo discípulos y en otrasescuelas hay sólo discípulas.

5. EL DISCÍPULO EN LA ESCUELA. El discípulo entra en la sala de clase. Él va a su banco y se sienta.Suena la campanilla y principia la lección de español. El maestropregunta. El discípulo se levanta y responde. Él se sienta, abre sulibro y lee una frase, dos frases. Él cierra su libro y repite lasfrases. Él habla alto y distintamente. Algunas veces habla bajo eindistintamente. Otras veces habla muy lentamente porque no ha estudiadosu lección con diligencia.Hace calor en la sala de clase y un discípulo abre la ventana. Él abretambién la puerta. Ahora hace demasiado frío y otro discípulo cierra laventana y la puerta. Él escribe con la pluma o con el lápiz lo que dictael maestro. Él va a la pizarra y escribe con la tiza en la pizarra.Después la limpia y va a su banco, se sienta y copia lo que está escritoen la pizarra.

Source: A First Spanish Reader by Alfred Remy and Erwin W. Roessler.

Incursión Musical - Flux

2008-02-17T13:11:00.002Z

And so it is that one always finds time to dig out some great tunes thanks again, to the marvels of the tube of videos: Flux, by Bloc Party. If you don't like the song and its great headbanging climax, enjoy at least the video... Flux ichiban!

aaaand if you are into more serious things *seriouser and seriouser* check out The Prayer, from the same band... it has been stuck in my head for days now!

El test de la planta ("trial by plant")

2008-01-30T14:23:00.001Z

Uno no debe fiarse de los regalos de sus jefes. Siempre hay una razón para todo. Cuando empecé en esta casa de locos mi jefa me dijo que mi oficina estaba muy vacía y tristona (no te jode, no tengo tiempo para decorarla) y me regaló una de sus plantas. Yo le agradecí la amabilidad y pensé, "caray, que detalle".

Desde entonces, mi relación con la planta ha estado bajo un escrutinio diario... Cada vez que me voy a ir de vacaciones mi jefa me dice "y la planta, cómo vas a hacer?". O si mi jefa usa mi ofi por cualquier motivo y llego yo y me la encuentro sentada ante mi ordenador, antes del "buenos días", me suelta lo de "tienes que regar la planta, que está muy seca". O lo de, "la hojita esa que está marrón la tienes que cortar". Cuando está de buen humor me viene a ensenhar una jarra que tiene llena de hojitas de té resecas (léase, las sobras de los tés verdes que se toma) y me dice lo de que "es muy bueno echarle un poco de te a las plantas, le echo un poco a la tuya?".

Lo del espionaje vegetal diario tiene su transfondo, y dependiendo de la relación jefe/subordinado, o del tiempo que el susodicho subordinado lleve en la oficina, va evolucionando en 3 etapas.
- al principio era una forma de controlar si yo estaba trabajando y en mi oficina.
- una vez aclarado que aquí la que trabaja es la menda y que me chupo más horas extra que el tonto del pueblo, llegué a la conclusión de que esta mujer quiere más a las plantas que a los seres humanos - y más de una vez me he planteado regalarle su planta con un lacito rojo y que la cuide Rita.
- Cuando ya el trabajo del subordinado hace posible que el jefe no haga falta, pasamos a la siguiente fase, la del peloteo. Hoy, asoma la cabeza por la puerta y me dice... "veo que no has matado aún a la planta... de hecho está creciendo y hasta tiene un retonho! será que le has gustado". Eso me lo tomo como un piropo, será que ahora me quiere más a mí a través de la planta... (lo llaman "sentimiento por delegación")...

Pero, pardiez!, lo que yo quiero es un aumento de sueldo!

Lo dicho, que no os fieis de los regalos de los jefes, que pueden ser pruebas hercúleas escondidas en inocentes muestras de aprecio. A mi personalmente la planta, la oficina y la jefa me tienen frita y en los momentos de asueto (que no son muchos) entre búsqueda y búsqueda de empleo, le escupo a la planta... así que será eso lo que la mantiene viva.

El Diario de Miss Gonzalez XXXII

2007-12-29T20:13:00.000Z

NO SE HABLA CON EXTRAÑOS Y EL VIRUS CONSUMISTA

Si es que el problema de vivir en pleno centro es que una se encuentra con todo tipo de ofertas hasta cuando va a comprar perejil, lo cual es muy malo para la visa, y eso que es electrón y me dice las verdades a la cara, vamos, aquí apoquino como dios manda, nada de créditos a fin de mes...

He caído en las redes del DVD. Y es que todas las coincidencias me llevan a Lawrence de Arabia. Vamos, que en uno de mis inocentes paseos por Virgin (porque es el atajo para llegar al supermercado) me encontré con el susodicho DVD, del susodicho personaje, en una oferta dos por uno... ¿y cómo decir que no cuando resulta que también tienen Blade Runner?. Ale, y hoy, como buena reincidente, me compré otros dos: Heat y Pi (pi de símbolo matemático, no de título gilipuertas). En fin, menos mal que revisando la lista de DVDs en oferta no me interesaba ningún otro.

Bueno, había el de Tora, Tora, Tora... pero no voy a caerrrrrr... ya me tiemblan los dedos, tendré que tomarme la medicación anti-consumo, unas cuantas pildoritas rojas y seguro que me curo.

Sigo, tuve también la genial idea de meterme en la librería, que es una preciosidad, de aquí al lado – cómo no, también "atajo para el supermercado" – y acabé con dos libros en el bolsillo (sí; Los siete pilares de la sabiduría, del amigo Lawrence, diosss, si es que ya lo tengo hasta en la sopa, y Count Belisarius de Robert Graves, ese mismo, el que me metió a Lawrence por medio en la traducción). Ale, otro clavo a la tarjeta. Y claro, en la tienda de al lado tienen estas bombas para el baño que molan tanto, y encima las tenían en forma de huevo, dentro de un cartón de media docena de huevos.... ale, a la bolsa también.... y por supuesto, en Fenwick tienen pasta fresca, así que, toma, pasta fresca para la niña (como si no tuviese pasta de la otra para parar un tren o para llenar un refugio antinuclear y sobrevivir con ella).

Para más INRI, como estoy de vacaciones y eso significa permitírselo todo (ojito, que sólo me quedan tres días), pues al teatro de cabeza. Eso sí, mereció la pena. Como es un rollo lo de quedar con la gente, fui yo sola, a la matinée, uséase, a eso de las dos, y el teatro, como era de esperar estaba hasta los topes de gente muy viejecita muy viejecita y muy inglesa ella. A mi me tocó entre dos señoras robustas que comían caramelos (siiii, como la petarda del Rosalía en Coruña, que a cada obra se llevaba mentolines de esos que tienen el plastiquito que hace cras cras cras y los sacaba despacito de su bolso – bolso con velcro, obviamente, para que también haga cro, cro, cro – y les quitaba el plastiquito despacito haciendo aún más ruido que si lo sacase de una tacada), bueno, pero éstos eran sugus y no hacían ruido... Lo peor fue el señor que se me sentó detrás. Yo estaba tranquilamente leyendo mi libro a cinco minutos del comienzo de la obra, cuando oigo una voz chillona en mi oreja diciendo “¿crees que me dará tiempo a leerme un capítulo de mi libro a mi también?”. Me doy la vuelta y le digo amablemente “pues por qué no”, y me pregunta que qué libro estoy leyendo, y le digo que el de los Mitos Celtas, y me dice que el suyo es parecido y va y me pone delante de las narices “La interpretación de los evangelios desde el punto de vista de los judíos”. “Pues sí, mire usted, al final todo es lo mismo” le digo, y me da el libro y me dice, “mira, mira, lee donde está marcado que seguro que te interesa” y ya me veis a mi abriendo los evangelios del rabí jacob por la página marcada y teniendo que leerme el papelito que usaba como marcador. Léase: conferencia del reverendo no-se-que en la universidad de aquí al lado, sobre la interpretación de los evangelios en cuestión, tráiganse su comida y el té, porque como los encuentros religiosos en el lugar son cada vez más escasos se ha prescindido del bar y todo tipo de aportación económica voluntaria será bien recibido por el reverendo en cuestión que es una figura clave y no se que más. “Pues sí” le digo dándome la vuelta y devolviéndole el libro “muy interesante”... y con la técnica de si-hago-que-no-me-entero-de-nada-seguro-que-se-cansa (y pasa de mi), me doy la vuelta y me enfrasco en mi libro haciendo como que es interesante... Al instante noto un codazo de la afable señora-armario que estaba a mi lado, y me dice riéndose por lo bajito para que el de atrás no se entere... “Por algo se dice que no se debe hablar con extraños, ji, ji, ji”....

Así que ahí queda la moraleja.

Incursión Musical "Bat for Lashes"

2007-11-27T21:14:00.000Z

Now, this is what I call friggin' fuggin' funktastic. Donnie Darko BMX drivers & a wonderful song... what's a girl to do?

Kinteto Musikene

2007-11-14T10:25:00.000Z

Y es que hay que darle publicidad a la familia....

One's gotta be proud of her family

En el patio del colegio

2007-11-11T10:53:00.000Z

La verdad es que los políticos hispanos no se hacen hacen ningún favor en sus apariciones televisivas. Como en el patio del colegio o en el mercado entre verduleras, vamos a ver quién grita más. Y el rey, emulando tal vez el estilo pulido de las nuevas estrellas de la tele-realidad, también a mostrar quién es el más educado... Me recuerda al de "te voy a dar una yoya"

Lo que más me ha sorprendido de este evento tan pueril, es la traducción del "por qué no te callas" que le ha dado la BBC

"Mr Chavez repeatedly tried to interrupt, despite his microphone being turned off [imagínense el pánico del tipo a cargo del sonido y la megafonía, intentando acallar a Chávez por medios técnicos]. The king leaned forward and said: "Why don't you shut up?". According to reports, the king used a familiar term normally used only for close acquaintances - or children."

Según el noticiero británico el "por qué no te callas" es para los niños [léase Gloria Fuertes revolviéndose en la tumba e intentando encontrar una rima con la frasecita] o para los "conocidos" [espero que mis conocidos no me traten así]. Yo leí la noticia inicialmente en inglés, de ahí que me entrase la curiosidad por lo que había sucedido y por cómo se había desarrollado el "diálogo" [jua, ja, ja], y pensé que el rey le había dicho "cierra el pico" o "calla la boca niño" o "no nos des la brasa", o lo de "si te ahogas, te mato"... Sin embargo, nos ha deleitado sólo con un soso "por qué no te callas" más chulapo que de alta cuna, dejando en mí un cierto elemento de desazón al pensar que en realidad suceden cosas más importantes en el mundo que este tipo de intercambios colegiales.

Eso sí, Zapatero por lo menos se lo tomó con mucha calma...

El Diario de Miss Gonzalez XXXI

2007-11-10T21:10:00.000Z

CASA REPLETA

Argh, ahora estoy yo solita en Newcastle, sobreviviendo a base de cocinar torrijas y regalarlas por ahí a los otros pobres desamparados que se han quedado en la ciudad sin vacaciones. Menos mal, de todas formas, que no me dio por comprarme ese preciado billete a las Canarias, porque resulta que están de temporal y lluvias torrenciales. Así que, me alegraré de estar en la soleada Inglaterra (por lo menos soleado dentro de mi habitación, por la luz que irradio, por mi aura de cálida claridad)...

El viernes encontramos la solución ideal a nuestro problema de alojamiento. Como siempre; fuimos a ocuparle la casa a Cristina. Esta vez sus compañeras francesas debieron de quedarse boquiabiertas, porque no sólo estábamos Katrin y yo, sino que Paulo estaba pasando unas semanas también en el lugar (y está, que aún no se habrá vuelto a España). Pero bueno, Cristina es una mujer de recursos y nos acomodó a todos en su habitación sin problema ninguno. Incluso al día siguiente tuvimos tiempo para ir de mini-gira por la ciudad y tomar unos deliciosos pasteles en una de las salas de té de Mackintosh, el arquitecto más preciado de Glasgow.

La cabaña en la que nos estaban esperando Jane y Patrick estaba en Crianlairch, justo al norte del Loch Lomond. Para llegar allí lo más fácil era coger el tren a Balloch y allí nos recogerían con el coche. La línea que une Glasgow con Balloch es un espectáculo inolvidable: si alguna vez se os ocurre cogerla fijaos en un sitio que se llama Renton. Ahora me explico por qué uno de los personajes de Trainspotting se llama así. Creo que nunca había visto un suburbio más feo, deprimente y sucio. Menos mal que el paisaje posterior mereció la pena, porque tamaña cutrez sólo te la esperas en las revistas del National Geographic, en uno de esos estudios sociológicos sobre las favelas en Brasil. Claro que en este caso las favelas eran de hormigón gris o bunkers prefabricados con vistas al campo de fútbol de hierba.

La carretera a Crianlairch era de lo más sinuosa, y cuando llegamos a la cabaña nos alegramos de que la tierra dejase de moverse al poner los pies en el suelo. Pedazo de cabaña. En serio, más que montañeros parecíamos yuppies de vacaciones. Una habitación para cada uno, cocina, baño (que ya me encargué de romper yo el primer día, como siempre, soy una mujer que deja huella), saloncito, set de puzzles multipiezas (en los que caímos Patrick y yo, con ánimo masoquista, dejándonos llevar durante largas horas por las intrincadas profundidades de un puzzle del más típico estilo inglés hortera y decimonónico)... ah, y SKY TV (pudimos ver la noche de los óscars, poner verde a las actrices y actores, y tragarnos todos los capítulos que pudimos de Expediente X y Stargate, de lo más apropiado para unas vacaciones en la montaña) y equipo de música (amenizado con las cintas de Patrick, que es un magnífico DJ, obviamente porque nos gusta la misma música, pero creo que Jane y Katrin acabaron un poco hasta las narices de nosotros).

Bien, y tras este recuento bucólico de nuestra llegada a la salvaje Escocia, cómo no, tengo que quejarme. En la parte de atrás teníamos una especie de jardín. De hecho el salón tenía un ventanal chulísimo que se abría a ese jardín. Y con muy buena idea, los dueños del sitio habían puesto unos recipientes con comida para pájaro, de manera que todo tipo de pajaritos (cuyos nombres no conozco, pero sé que eran muchos tipos porque, obviamente, eran de colores distintos) podían posarse en las ramitas y alimentarse mientras los turistas de ciudad flipaban con sus trinos. El problema era cuando tras un día entero pateando la montaña bajo lluvia, viento, con barro hasta las orejas, y cansada a más no poder, los mismos tiernos pajaritos te despertaban a las ocho de la mañana. Y no es que fuese a sacar una escopeta de perdigones, pero me alegré mucho de que a nadie se le ocurriese rellenar los recipientes de comida dos días después, a paseo, que se busquen los gusanitos en otra parte

Beh, aún así al final le cogí cariño a los pajaritos. En cuanto al lado más natural, Jane tenía planeadas varias rutas de unas cuatro a seis horas de paseo por la montaña. Los paisajes eran increíbles, pero obviamente el tiempo era Escocés. Los primeros días nuestras caminatas se vieron amenizadas por viento, lluvia, granizo y niebla, y el suelo chapoteaba bajo nuestros pies. Entre la humedad del terreno, el deshielo que lo dejó todo encharcado, y la lluvia que caía desde todos los flancos, llegó un momento en que nos daba igual mirar al suelo cuando pisábamos, porque estábamos de barro hasta las rodillas. También había fauna para acompañarnos en nuestras correrías, sobre todo ovejas que se nos quedaban mirando con esa cara de estar pensando “pringadossss”... y que obviamente dejaron rastro en nuestros pantalones, porque cada vez que nos caíamos o nos pringábamos no sabíamos si era barro o caca de oveja. Y es que el paisaje escocés es muy divertido; las ovejas son peludas, los caballos son peludos, las vacas son peludas... y la montaña es peluda, con unas melenas de hierba amarillenta que de lejos le da un color y una textura inigualable, pero que de cerca parecen más bien parte de una tundra de plantas muertas. Y uno se pregunta en la montaña que para qué carajo quiere seguir adelante, si luego al llegar a un punto aleatorio hay que darse la vuelta y volver más o menos por el mismo camino, no se, si no hay una meta en la que te dan chocolatinas y un té calentito sino que cuando ya te has cansado tienes que hacer de nuevo el mismo esfuerzo... pero bueno, digamos que es el placer de andar por andar, y que yo no me quejé porque esta vez no hicimos el jíbaro por ninguna montaña.

El último día Jane y Patrick se fueron a escalar una montaña nevada mientras que Katrin y yo nos quedamos a la orilla de un riachuelo escondido entre un bosque y una llanura amarilla y pedregosa, tomando el sol. Sí, habéis oído bien, tomando el sol, porque menudo día maravilloso hizo. Esa vez fuimos a las montañas de la zona de Crianlairch, ya que anteriormente habíamos cogido el coche para ir al sur del Loch Lomond, a Glen Coe y Fort William, y otros lugares. El bosque era de abetos, y nunca había visto uno tan tupido. Después de meterme un poquito dentro de la espesura, comprendí perfectamente por qué en los cuentos si querían deshacerse de los niños los dejaban en medio de un bosque.

La vuelta fue muy divertida, sobre todo porque al final acabamos haciendo el recorrido de Glasgow a pie de una punta a otra de la ciudad, unas cuatro horas, y casi se nos quedan los pies en el intento. La necrópolis era cuanto menos graciosa porque parecía que en vez de tumbas aquello era una competición de a ver quien le pone la lápida o el monolito más alto a sus muertos... era como una plantación de palitos de chupa-chups. Y encima tenían la mejor vista de toda la ciudad. La casa de Mackintosh es una preciosidad, pero las escaleras son non-aptas para gente con reuma. Hummm, y no se qué más vimos, aparte del pedazo de chocolate caliente y pastel que nos tomamos al acabar el día, que eso nunca se olvida (es marca de la familia), el viaje transcurrió sin problemas y fueron unas vacaciones sanas y tranquilas.

A los dos días de mi regreso se vinieron Cris y Paulo, y Thorsten también. Así que tuve esta vez yo la casa repleta. Mi vecinita alucina, porque se cree que tengo la tira de amigos, ya que han venido todos seguidos, y la última vez ha sido en masa. Hicimos una cena internacional, Anand cocinó curry, Kaori se olvidó de cambiar la hora y no pudo venir, David también se olvidó de cambiar la hora, pero se dio cuenta a tiempo, ensalada hecha por Katrin para el sector vegetariano, y tortilla de aquí la menda. Víctimas: el tupperware que Rosa me había prestado para hacer torrijas se prendió fuego (eh, y no fui yo, esta vez no fue culpa mía, que conste) y ahora le ha quedado una marca negra de lo más ominoso en una de las asas. Argh, de solo pensar que eso le puede pasar a uno de esos libros que prestas por ahí, o cualquier otra cosa que se te ocurra dejarle a un amigo... se me cayó el alma al suelo por el pobre tupperware, y hoy he confesado mi culpa por teléfono a Rosa. ¡Soy una asesina de tupperwares!

Illustration Friday: Open

2007-10-06T19:16:00.000Z

I haven't participated in Illustration Friday for a while... actually, I haven't even been around online for a while after a grueling month of work (7 a.m. to 9 p.m., crazy!). Nevertheless, this topic has put me back on track and I have decided to actually create something big-ish in pastel. May frame it even though Mannginger may never want to look to our walls again if I keep on filling them with this sort of paraphernalia. The Wellcome Collection's exhibition on the heart must have had some impact on me, as this was the first thing that came to my mind when reading the topic. Best thing about the exhibition? The whale's heart... you can fit a roomful of sailors and Captain Ahab's in it.

Incursión Musical / Musical interlude

2007-09-09T18:16:00.000Z

Pues parece que esto de tirarme horas ante un libro preparando deberes da su fruto... no en trabajo si no en descubrimientos musicales.

Hours of boredom have given fruit not to the homework I am supposed to be doing but to new musical pleasures. Caribou, the latest discovery of my random musical excursions.

El Diario de Miss González XXX (Wehey! triple ex!)

2007-08-29T19:59:00.000Z

MARIQUITA DÍAZ

Así, así me veo en mi nueva casa, y tras un largo silencio fomentado por lo bien que se está aquí... Vamos, que más que en escribir diarios gasto el tiempo en batir el record de sueño. Creo que en mi otra vida debí de ser un lirón o algo así porque cuanto más duermo más ganas tengo de dormir, y no paro, y sigue, y sigue, de hecho, ahora estaría durmiendo si no fuese por un ataque de fuerza de voluntad que me ha dado, y si no fuese por el pastel que está en el horno...

¿Pastel? Se preguntarán mis queridos lectores. Pues sí, tras la experiencia de la montaña me he vuelto hogareña, de hecho, cada día me parezco más a nuestra entrañable Mariquita Díaz, la muñeca de las niñas que de mayores quieren ser mamás... Estos últimos fines de semana, por fin, he decidido dejar de ser uno de esos ejemplares que se alimentan de bocadillos y pasta con salsa de bote. Bueno, no es que haya dejado de comer eso, pero por lo menos me he propuesto cocinar, y para que la cosa vaya en serio, cocinamos en grupo. Ayer, para celebrar la noche de San Patricio cocinamos Rosa y yo un pastel salado de verduras que nos quedó primoroso, hoy cocinamos pimientos rellenos (ejem, mejor obviemos el asunto porque el pimiento estar, estaba relleno, pero nos quedó un pelín crudo y aún me está repitiendo). Y nada, ya que tengo todo lo necesario en casa, hoy he decidido cocinar un pastel por mi cuenta, a ver que sale... Y lo peor es que el horno no tiene ventanita así que no se si se ha derramado todo porque le he echado demasiada levadura o si resulta que anda por los suelos porque la frutilla que le he echado pesa demasiado. A todo esto, el fin de semana pasado cocinamos algo parecido a un pastel de zanahoria, pero no se si decir que fue un éxito o darle sólo un aprobado.

En fin, cambiemos de tema, que esto comienza a parecer las crónicas de Arguiñano en vez de el diario de aquí una servidora.

Anduve bastante ocupada estas semanas porque vino Sergio de visita y luego vino Simón. A Sergio lo torturamos entre todos porque ese viernes era justo la despedida de Richard (sí, el que se va a México, que digo, el que está ahora en México lindo disfrutando del buen tiempo), y, como no, la despedida consistió en ir a bailar salsa. Vinieron todos los amigos de David (que no se donde los tenía escondidos), y con todos ellos bailamos, lo cual fue un gran ejemplo de buena voluntad, porque una cosa es bailar salsa con un inglés y que te pise o te entre complejo de escoba, y otra es bailar salsa con seis, cada uno de su father y de su mother, siguiendo su propio ritmo y, peor aún, siendo conscientes del ridículo que hacían y dándonos mil gracias por enseñarles a bailar, cosa que no harían si estuviesen sobrios. La verdad es que es la primera vez que me topo con ingleses que se dan cuenta del ridículo que están haciendo en situaciones como esa... La noche fue memorable, pero no tengo ninguna foto.

La semana siguiente vino Simón, y no sé qué tortura le tenía preparada... ah, sí, ya me acuerdo. La fiesta de disfraces. Como la cosa de su llegada estaba un poco en el aire porque de aquí volvía a Glasgow y luego a Madrid y luego a Boston, pues mira, yo me había agenciado un compromiso para el martes por la noche... la Fiesta de Disfraces que nuestra querida amiga Peggy había organizado, sí, la representante de alumnos ninfómana que persigue a David. Y es que los disfraces me pirran.

Por tres libras me compré el quit completo de Eva Perón, que al final quedó en “Mujer de Dictador” aleatoria, o Bonnie sin Clyde y sin una maldita recortada en el bolso de abuela que me había comprado. Luego, por otras tres libras me compré el pedazo de gorro horterísima tipo años cuarenta que era de lo más cantoso y cómo no, complemento ideal para la Señorita Pepis. Guardo foto... A Simón le tocó ir de Náufrago. Si es que... en el Ejército de Salvación se encuentra la respuesta a todos los problemas de vestuario. Compramos una camisa y con mucho gusto la hicimos añicos. Me dio un poco de pena porque la tela era de buena calidad, pero qué le vamos a hacer... David, que se iba a quedar a dormir en casa con nosotros iba de... Zorro...

Qué lata me había dado durante toda la semana... Que si ya había llevado el traje de Zorro los carnavales pasados (me dirás, en esta fiesta nadie le conocía, y no es tan malo repetir traje digo yo). Que si iba demasiado sexy (y que si Peggy se le iba a tirar a sus partes porque claro, no podría reprimirse ante sus encantos). En fin, que al final vino de Zorro, vestido desde Morpeth, en el autobús, con espada y todo, y cuando llega parecía más Sandokan que el Zorro (ah, y lógicamente no sabía quién era Sandokan, así que no le pude tomar el pelo).

Llegamos allí y nos encontramos con la fiesta de disfraces de Porky´s. A Simón le estuvo acosando una salchicha vestida de enfermera guarrona, y según parece una de las amigas de la misma, vestida de pastorcilla de porcelana le dejó bien clara la sensación que le daba cuando le miraba (no pienso repetir las palabras ni los gestos, por respeto a la víctima del acoso, sorry Simón, siento que tengas que salir en mi diario... pero piensa que la población masculina española te hará un monumento, y más de uno habría deseado estar en tu lugar). También Peggy demostró su interés por el chico nuevo contándome lo maravilloso que le parecía, a lo que una, muy en su papel de mujer de dictador tapada del cuello a los tobillos le contestó que a mi plin y que se lo contase a él si quería. David se libró esa noche del acoso de Peggy, pero cayó en las garras de tres Criadas Francesas, Catwoman y alguna que otra Superhéroe más... Una profe de inglés que iba disfrazada de Robin, y una de las profesoras de francés la acompañaba de Batman. Había incluso dos pobres chicas que habían alquilados los trajes de Wallace y Grommit o algo así, no se cómo se llaman los personajes éstos de plastilina, el uno un señor y el otro su perro, que iban asadas de calor y sujetándose los pedazos de cabezones que llevaban de traje. También había Blues Brothers, Vilmas y Pedros, Pink Ladies, travestis (pero de lo más grotesco), y un escaparate portentoso de pantorrillas, muslamen y obviamente pechugas, de tal manera que más que una fiesta parecía el mostrador de una carnicería.

Loados los hombres que pudieron disfrutar de la visión, porque yo me aburrí bastante, estando mi lado lésbico bastante enquistado, y habiendo pocos hombres a los que admirar porque todos daban pena. David al final se fue a la discoteca, atrapado en las garras de las hermosas damiselas a las que habían hecho creer que era Mexicano. En fin... no comments.

Obviamente no supimos nada de él hasta el día siguiente, y eso que le dije que no tenía más que llamarme al móvil, que le abría la puerta y que tenía su rinconcito en el suelo al lado de nuestro amigo Simoncete... En vez de en casa de aquí la menda, acabó en casa de Catwoman (sólo para dormir, nada de rollos), la cual no le gustaba porque era rubia (a esto tampoco añado comentario), y encima se pensó el alma cándida que la muchacha al día siguiente no iba a darse cuenta de que no sólo era inglés sino que encima profesor. Obviamente, la mujer le reconoció y fue a ver si se tomaba un café con ella, y David puso pies en polvorosa... pero como dice él “Por un día fui el Zorro mexicano”. Qué haríamos sin él... nuestras vidas serían tan aburridas...

Illustration Friday: Visitors

2007-08-25T12:46:00.001Z

Ah well... quality is not fantastic, but clicky on the image to check the big sized granny. This one is for those moments of man flu where no-one is around to tuck you in bed and feed you homemade chicken soup and just be generally patient with you when you are in a foul mood. Do not underestimate the importance of grannies.

Illustration Friday: Captain

2007-08-18T10:02:00.000Z

That little poem we had to learn by heart for our Literature exams when we were younger... "The Pirate's Song". Can you imagine a classfull of children repeating as if it was a choir all those lines on life in the sea, sailing and privateering around the world.... This one's a doodle for Illustration Friday

Did I say it was a "little" poem? Now this is edited for those of you who really want to learn Spanish... here's the full thing...

"Canción del pirata" Espronceda

Con diez cañones por banda,
viento en popa, a toda vela,
no corta el mar, sino vuela
un velero bergantín.
Bajel pirata que llaman,
por su bravura, El Temido,
en todo mar conocido
del uno al otro confín.

La luna en el mar riela
en la lona gime el viento,
y alza en blando movimiento
olas de plata y azul;
y va el capitán pirata,
cantando alegre en la popa,
Asia a un lado, al otro Europa,
y allá a su frente Istambul:

Navega, velero mío
sin temor,
que ni enemigo navío
ni tormenta, ni bonanza
tu rumbo a torcer alcanza,
ni a sujetar tu valor.

Veinte presas
hemos hecho
a despecho
del inglés
y han rendido
sus pendones
cien naciones
a mis pies.