Last weekend was the St. Isidro festival. Isidro is the patron saint of Madrid, and the locals like to honour his memory by dressing oddl… I mean … traditionally and putting on various cultural performances in the city.

Normally I can link the saints’ names with their Anglicised equivalents, like San Pedro (St. Peter) San Paulo (St. Paul) and Santa Kieda (St. Kilda). The most obscure one I’ve come across is Santiago, which is the Spanish derivative of St. James (more to come on that later, potentially). Something obviously went wrong in the English rendering of that one.

The closest English equivalent to Isidro I could come up with was Isildur. I’m not prepared to claim that it’s a direct cognate, just a possible conceptual link. Wikipedia suggests that actually Isidro is a form of the name Isidore, but I’ve discounted that because that’s obviously not a real name. Who ever heard of someone called Isidore?

Anyway, the celebration is a week long cultural festival. The only events I really had any access to were the Friday traditional festival of wandering around in strange clothes, and a public musical theatre number in the main city square on the Saturday night.

I came across a group of strange clothes wearers sitting around a table singing a traditional Madrileño song. As usual, I couldn't catch any of the words, but I am reliably informed by the internet that they go something like this:

Ai! laurie lantar lassi sūrinen
inyalemīne rāmar aldaron
inyali ettulielle turme mārien
anduniesse la mīruvōrion
Varda telūmen falmar kīrien
laurealassion ōmar mailinon.
Elentāri Vardan Oiolossëan
Tintallen māli ortelūmenen
arkandavā-le qantamalle tūlier
e falmalillon morne sindanōrie
no mīrinoite kallasilya Valimar.

The musical theatre piece was equally opaque to me. Normally it’s okay if you have no idea what the words are; the whole concept of opera is premised on exactly that principle. However, this wasn’t exactly classical art, and furthermore the female lead couldn’t really sing, which is normally a prerequisite for people making a living from singing. So I bailed on that one pretty early and went to watch some street chess, until they were shut down by the police for creating a public disturbance*. I did catch one particularly stirring soliloquy by the male lead, who took centre stage and boldly proclaimed:

“Miro en os ojos el mismo miedo que robaría mi corazón. Podría viene un día en que el valor de humanidad falte y abandonamos nuestras compañeros y rompamos todas las fianzas de compañerismo. Pero no es hoy día. Una hora de lobos y escudos destruidos cuando la época de humanidad se calla. ¡Pero no es hoy día! ¡Hoy día peleamos! Por todos que aprecias en eso mundo bien, os mando a quedarse en pie. ¡Hombres del Oeste!”

I need to get out more.

Far from home

 

 

Garry with 2 Rs

*I feel compelled to point out that, while this entire post is, more or less, complete rubbish, the street chess bit did actually happen, as did the police intervention. And you thought chess players were just geeks and little Asian girls. Hell no! ¡Somos bandidos!

I spent last weekend in a resort town in South East Spain called La Manga. It’s a little village close to the south east coast. The closest notable cities are Cartagena and Murcia (the regional capital). It was a bit of a hike from Madrid; I had to take a five hour train ride to Cartagena and then a twenty minute taxi ride, but it was a great place to kick back for a few days once I got there.

I was a bit out of place though. La Manga has the look of one of those southern Spanish villas that’s actually just a retirement village for British billionaires. It’s technically still under Spanish sovereignty, but as far as local culture goes, it belongs to England. And possibly also to the 20th century. Everyone speaks English and all the restaurants sell beef burgers and fish and chips and … whatever other stuff people eat in England. And all the prices are adjusted to suit the local clientele, so it’s not the sort of place a normal person could stay for more than a weekend or so, and not the sort of place you would normally find me at all.

So what the hell was I doing there?

Madrid Cricket Club was hosting a twenty-twenty tournament with a bunch of teams from Europe getting together for a weekend of good old-fashioned British culture, which seems to be what sleepy towns in south-east Spain are all about. And I was there in my freshly purchased MCC whites, ready to represent Madrid along with all the other ex-pats.

There were two other teams from Spain, three teams from England and two teams from the Netherlands. The English teams weren’t such a big deal (as is usually the case with English cricket teams), and actually the teams to watch were the Dutch boys. Amsterdam and The Hague were the strongest teams, since both teams had members who played for the Netherlands, and were fitting the weekend in between preparations for the world cup qualifiers. The English teams, like the Spanish teams, were mainly amateurs looking for a fun weekend in the sunshine.

I ended up playing most of the weekend as 12th man for La Manga CC, who hadn’t quite managed to bring a full team (despite the competition being held in their town) and needed to borrow some Madrid players. I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that even the team that couldn’t field a full side didn’t want me in their first eleven, so in the end I decided not to make anything of it, and just ran around at deep mid-wicket for a while.

As you might expect my batting was nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing to write a blog entry about, so I won’t.

I did manage to sneak in a couple of overs for Madrid with the ball when we played against La Manga, and took figures of two overs, no maidens, one for six which wasn’t too bad. Especially since the wicket was a Dutch national player from The Hague who had been called in to take my spot (make of that what you will).

Over all Madrid finished fifth, behind the Dutch teams and two of the English teams, but ahead of the other Spaniards and one particularly unfortunate English side.

Far from home

 

 

Garry with 2 Rs

I’ve been experimenting lately with the culinary delights of the Chinese takeaway around the corner from my flat in Madrid. Yes, much like Irish bars and American fast food franchises, it seems there isn’t a major city in the world in which one can’t find a Chinese restaurant within a couple of blocks of any given point on the map.

Another universal feature of world culture is that, wherever they are, Asian people have difficulty distinguishing between their /l/s and their /r/s. At the risk of sounding racially intolerant, I can assure you that this is just as funny in Spanish as it is in English. And it’s doubly hilarious when one reads a menu which has been translated from Man

Apologies to anyone who doesn’t have enough Spanish/popular culture to get the following series of humorous anecdotes. Just take my word for it; they’re hilarious.

The special of the day was “noodles with three delicious”. I didn’t have the nerve to ask “three delicious what?” so I just went with the old classic “Arroz Frito con Pollo” (it’s Aloz Flito you plick!)

The best bit came when I paid for it. Admittedly, I still have quite a bit of trouble with Spanish numbers, especially when they’re said too fast. But I was pretty sure something had gone horribly wrong when the assistant charged me “telez con coa lente”. It took me three tries to realise the price was “tres con cuarenta” (that’s three forty if you’re playing along at home).

So I finally got my fried rice, and it wasn’t too bad, especially given Spain’s relative distance from China as compared to Australia’s. And I was absolutely stoked to find someone in Madrid who speaks Spanish worse than I do.

Far from home

 

 

Garry with 2 Rs

Lately, it seems every conversation I have with someone back home contains some enquiry as to whether I’ve managed to locate a nice Spanish girl during my travels here.

Those of you who know me well are probably bracing yourselves for the inevitable tirade along the lines of a) girls are dumb b) romance is stupid and c) the last thing I need is to get stuck in a city I have no intention of staying in long term.

Furthermore, clearly my chief tools in any such hypothetical campaign are going to be my wit, charm and uncanny way with words, all of which are stunted in the European context by my lack of dialectal fluency, which leaves me with the coherence and vocabulary of the average footballer. I’m forced (hypothetically) to rely purely on my rugged good looks and sheer animal magnetism. And that’s going to be a low percentage shot, whichever way you measure it.

So to hell with it. Unfortunately I can’t provide any truthful or even believable tales of exotic European romance, so I hereby submit the following as a place holder until such time as I can get my actual act together (you may be waiting a while – get over it).

I had considered putting the transcript down in the original native Spanish, but in light of the difficulties this would likely create for you, the reader and also the fact that I’m not actually capable of such a cross-linguistic feat just yet, you’ll just have to use your imagination and picture the following conversation taking place in fluent Spanish.

Susana: Hey there cutie. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?
Garry: Good morning. Are you having a nice time?
Susana: I’m having a great time. What do you think of the decorations? I think they’re a bit over the top.
Garry: Yes.
Susana: …
Garry: …
Susana: …
Garry: This wine is very nice. Would you like some?
Susana: Yes. Thankyou.
Garry: …
Susana: …
Garry: …
Susanna: So what part of England are you from?
Garry: No. I’m from Streyer.
Susana: From where?
Garry: ah ooh strah lee ah
Susana: Oh! Australia.
Garry: Yeah.
Susana: I really want to go there. What part of Australia?
Garry: I’m from Darwin.
Susana: Is that near Sydney?
Garry: Not really, no.
Susana: …
Garry: …
Marlena: Hi Susie. What’s happening?
Susana: Mazza! It’s been far too long. I hope your sister has recovered from the mild case of Typhoid fever she contracted a few months ago during her prolonged sojourn on the sub-continent.
Garry: Hello.
Susana: Oh, yeah, Marlena, this is … what’s your name again?
Garry: I am called Garry.
Susana: He’s from Australia. Near Sydney.
Marlena: I’ll bet he is. Actually I came over to find out why you’re talking to him, you bitch.
Susana: Eh?
Garry: What?
Marlena: You know very well that I saw him first, and that I called dibbs on him from the other side of the room.
Garry: What?
Susana: You called dibbs? What are we, like 14 years old?
Marlena: Ah well, I’m going to have to open up a can of whoop-ass on you now.
Susana: Bring it on, bitch!
Oxfam Girl: Alright you two, break it up. He’s here with me.
Garry: ¡Chica Oxfam! ¿Que demonios haces aqui?
Oxfam Girl: I’m here to rescue you from getting your arse kicked by two angry Spanish girls.
Garry: But…
Oxfam Girl: Come on. I’ve a got an escape blimp parked out the back.
Garry: Freaking typical. Even when I write the romance myself I don’t get anywhere.
Oxfam Girl: Shut up and get in the blimp.
Garry: You know… something about this whole scenario just doesn’t make sense.

Far from home

 

 

Garry with 2 Rs

Life here in Madrid continues much as it has the past three months. In the case of any other blogger, this would make for a rather uneventful and possibly neglected blog; but not for me! I can, and will, spin a malcontent rant out of just about anything, or indeed out of nothing at all, as is about to be proven.

Easter is almost upon us. For anyone living in Australia right now, I would assume that this would be flamingly obvious. Even if you haven’t the slightest religious inclination (or indeed if you’re strongly inclined towards a religion other than Christianity) it would be almost impossible to ignore the brightly coloured chocolates on display throughout shopping centres all over the country. Impossible, that is, unless you never go there, and live as some sort of nomadic hunter-gatherer out in the Simpson dessert somewhere, in which case… how are you even reading this?

Here in Spain I would have thought I’d be up against something similar, especially given the strong religious beliefs adhered to by official Spanish culture. I’ve read all about the colourful parades and spectacles that some Spanish cities put on for Holy Week. But honestly, I haven’t seen so much as a solitary chocolate egg. To tell you the truth I hadn’t even noticed they were missing until yesterday, when I happened to spot three lonely chocolate rabbits in the front window of a chocolate shop.

What does it all mean? Could it be that despite all its religious zeal, Spain as a nation just doesn’t get into Easter as enthusiastically as Australia does? Or could it be that that same religious zeal prevents them from commercialising the holiday and making it about chocolate rabbits? Or perhaps, do the Spaniards simply not like chocolate that much?

Yep, it’s another week full of deep philosophical pondering here at FFH. Join with me next week as we tackle the juxtaposition of the search for objective truth in a subjective world, and the search for an Australian off-spinner who doesn’t get clobbered over the fence every second ball.

Far from home

 

 

Garry with 2 Rs

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