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LIFE IN THE FOOD LANE
Sometimes I'm so brilliant in the kitchen it startles me but, often, I find cooking rather a nuisance. It means putting down a good book or having to stop gazing blankly at my computer screen; something I do a lot of. And then there are carrots. Despite my reluctance to go into the kitchen, other than for the usual reasons - a gin and tonic or a glass of wine - I must confess to suffering from a rather worrying obsession. However hard I try, I cannot bring myself to chop carrots into neat little discs after reading an article in 'Gourmet Cuisine' telling me that to serve diced carrots is such a terrible social gaffe that it would be better to garrotte yourself with a cheese wire and have done with it. And so, a slave to good taste, I find myself wasting precious time with either one of those extremely dangerous grater things that make fabulous julienne strips whilst leaving my nails like ragged claws, or attempting to bayonette them into submission. Why do I do this? It's not as if Himself even notices what he eats, let alone whether it's been julienned, bayonetted or shot for that matter. What is wrong with me? Am I worried that Gordon Ramsay might suddenly burst into my kitchen shouting abuse if he so much as finds one wrongly-shaped carrot in my pan? It's ridiculous but nevertheless I continue to obsess like some culinary fanatic, to don my apron, haul out yet another cook book (this week I'm in The Lebanon), and concoct something horribly complicated that looks nothing like the photograph and somehow always tastes vaguely of tarragon. My great grandfather trained under Escoffier in Paris; surely there must be some of his talent lurking in my fingertips? With this is mind, I've been experimenting. What about smoked rabbit's tongues (they turn a mesmerising grey-blue) with a lively snail foam, or baby lamb's tails in a tripe and Daily Telegraph reduction, a happy accident (as I was reading it at the time and a piece fell in - well, reductions take so long and I became bored) resulting in a delightful khaki-hued syrup. Personally, I see no end to my inventiveness, although Himself disagrees and believes, quite strongly as it happens, that my creative stream will leave just as suddenly as it came. But I think a little something served with spatchcocked toads on toast might just change his mind.
A BUMP OR A JUMP?
The other night, whilst fast asleep, our doorbell rang. This always occurs when we have a power cut and the entry phone has to re-set itself, although why this necessitates 700 bing-bongs, ensuring that we are fully awake and will remain so for the remainder of the night, is unclear. However, as it was a dark and stormy night, we decided this must be the case and heaved the duvet over our heads. After the third interruption we decided that a) it was an axe murderer, b) a friend who'd forgotten where he lived, c) the Guardia telling us we'd been denounced by the elderly tyrant on the third floor for excessive use of our doorbell or d) a neighbour in distress. It turned out that Dolores (on the first floor) and her 19 year old son Juan, had left their car lights on and were now faced with a dead battery. It was 1.30 in the morning and they had to get home (they were only decorating the flat and lived on the other side of Valencia), and did we have any jump leads? No we didn't and, because it is illegal here to tow another car, Juan had no idea what to do. Trying to tow a car illegally in the city is not easy, especially with a novice. First, you have to find a deserted street (or H did, I am still under the duvet) and then you have to keep stopping when your trainee runs over the tow rope, puts his foot on the brake, panics and runs into the back of you – or all three. Then, when you've finally achieved a head of steam and nothing seems to be happening and you stop, get out of your car to investigate, and you find that said trainee is trying to start the car on the ignition and not on the clutch, and doesn't have it in gear anyway, you must be forgiven for using harsh words. Two hours later with success achieved, there is a certain irony in your trainee telling you that he has just been accepted into the Police Academy. Still, Dolores made all well between us with a jar of her delightful home-prepared aceitunas (in tarragon).
I WILL GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS ...
Several years ago I suffered an injury to my neck (horse this way, me that way) that has since returned to haunt me. I will do almost anything not to visit a doctor, however, there are times when one must have some expert advice. One, choose your specialist. Right. Two, make an appointment. Difficult when the phone is not answered. Three, go to his address and speak with his assistant and four, discover that he doesn't work in the winter. Eh? The patients waiting to see his colleague are full of helpful advice. There is a very good clinic on the next street, they say, and there is bound to be a doctor there who can help me. A short walk brings us to the recommended establishment. Clinico Anal, we read, before hurrying past in case we see someone we know. I am still puzzling over what it is those other patients saw in me that possessed them to make such a suggestion.
WITH SKIRTS AND THE CRAZY PERSON
Have I lost all reason? Yes, a long time ago. Have the trials of living in Valencia finally broken down my mental stability? No. I've simply been trotting off to Filmoteca d'estiu for the season of films in the original version, where 'Some Like it Hot' translates as 'With skirts and the Crazy Person'. Eh? Apart from the strange translations it has been a great season: Truffaut, Fellini, Jean-Luc Godard, Ingmar Bergman, Billy Wilder and Anderson's 'There Will Be Blood'. But my total, absolute favourite was 'Ratatouille'. Made in 2007 by Brad Bird (The Incredibles), it's an absolute joy. Whether you're 10 or 70 this film will delight. If you get the chance, go and see it. Highly recommended.
WILL IT LAST?
The weather, that is. What a great summer it's been. BUT will there be a change on the autumn equinox – the 23 September – which traditionally marks the end of summer? Nights are drawing in and getting noticably cooler, the sales are over and the winter collections are beginning to appear in shop windows. The Fiestas are all but done (well, for now, anyway) and people are thinking about ..... the C word. Clog dancing, compost, camembert, candles ..no, no, no ... er, carpets, careers, caresses, cormorants, champagne ... no, no, no, er, camomile, castanets, cake ... no, no, no ... er, cranberry, no, no, no ... er, cards .... camels ... crackers ... do you realise it's only a few more weeks until ..... calamity! Why didn't I shop for presents in the sales? Why didn't I start making a list in February? Why am I so disorganised? Why do I buy people books that 'I know you'll love....?' when it's patently untrue and all my friends know I'm lying through my teeth because I do it every year because they know I always leave everything to the last minute? Why am I so hopeless?
BUT even worse than the unmentionable fiesta in December are the words 'back to college'. During the summer recess I have been working hard, er, ish. Each month that passed I resolved to surprise, nay, astonish my tutor with my fluency, my inventiveness, my actual cleverness in speaking the language of my chosen country. I have failed on all counts. But, in my defence, what sort of language includes 'No hay dos' (there aren't two) to mean 'There's only one'. Answer me that if you can.
'DRIVE', HE SAID
Yes, yes, I know I'm not allowed to mention the 'D' word but this is really scary. In the early hours of Sunday morning I was driving along Calle Cronista Revelles on the north side of The Turia, in the two lanes to the left that lead across the Puente Serranos, when I had a heart-stopping experience. In the process of slowing down to drop off some friends who live in the Barrio del Carmen, my friend and I screamed in unison as we saw a car coming towards us very fast, headlights blazing. For one crazy moment I thought I was on the wrong side of the road but, no, this maniac had driven the wrong way over the bridge and was now travelling south east against the traffic. The passenger was in earnest conversation with the driver who, as he swept past us, showed no sign that he intended to do a u-turn. We watched in horrified fascination as the car's tail lights disappeared into the distance, swinging from left to right as it dodged the oncoming traffic, tensed for the crash that we were convinced was coming. Was it a bet? Did he really not notice which way the traffic was going? Or had he been kidnapped by a bank robber and forced, at gunpoint, to escape into the maze of streets to the north? Thinking about it, though, my guess is that it was a piece of classic impatience and the Valencian driver was doing what he does best, taking the short route home. Sadly, we'll never know.
FRUSTRATED BOOKWORM
Over the long summer my head has rarely been out of a book. However, the latest 'best sellers' have been, quite frankly, second-rate. Only one in five have been deserving of merit, which is not only disappointing but worrying. Why are standards slipping? Why are so many books getting through when they don't deserve it, especially when it is generally accepted that the Brits are the most prolific (and among the best) writers in the world? I am vexed by the suspicion that the Americans are stealing our thunder. This cannot be allowed to happen but when we see an ad in the Daily Telegraph, placed there by a frustrated, unpublished writer (and judging by the English construction a brick stands a better chance of success) pleading for notice, I get an unpleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach that the worst may not be over ....
So, take a look at the book reviews from Gooru and Babu ('Cullture' section on the home page) and see if there's anything they can recommend. I do hope so.
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
Picture this small vignette. Driving through Cabanyal on my way to Russafa one morning I saw an elderly woman standing by her ancient van, head in hands. I drove past keeping my eyes on my rear view mirror but no-one came to her assistance. I drove once more round the block and asked if I could help. Her car had suddenly 'died', she explained, and she had some eggs for the market in the back of her van. The workings of a car are one of 'the great mysteries' as far as I'm concerned. If it stops working l give it a womanly kick – I suggested this and she said she'd already tried it - and if that doesn't work I call H. So I asked if I could call someone for her. With a smile she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a smart mobile phone. She had called her son and he was on his way but he was taking so long and she had to get to market. I asked if she'd be all right until her son arrived and, somehow, she managed to turn this into an enquiry about her health and I lost twenty minutes of my life trying to get to grips with new medical vocabulary and wonderment at how a simple attack of 'gripe' can turn so ugly. As she thanked me for my kindness in stopping, she reached into her van and gave me 4 eggs. I tried to refuse seeing that she only had a dozen or so but she was adamant. I was to have them because she had nothing else to give me. I took them (reluctantly) and went on my way, conscious of them rolling precariously back and forth across the passenger seat. I strongly suspect, looking back, that my elderly lady saw me not as a saviour but as someone with whom to have a chat whilst she waited for her son. It may now be termed 'indirect reciprocity' but the kindness of strangers is universal and don't we all hope that if we help someone then, when we need it, someone will help us?
Points to remember: 1: Always listen to a woman when she's upset, anything less and they can become tricky. 2: Kicking the car often works; fact. Women of all nationalities understand this. 3: Kindness always brings its own reward. 4: Never underestimate the old, remember that they have the wisdom and know-how to get what they want. 5: Never ask a Spaniard about his or her health. 6: Always let your conscience be your guide... aaaggghhh, I'm beginning to sound like my mother. 7: Don't become like your mother.
AFRICAN LOVE DANCES
I went to a party the other night and found myself in conversation with a very interesting woman who had been brought up in Africa. After we'd both had one drink too many she taught me a dance performed by young women in the bush seeking husbands. Instructed solemnly that we must never touch, we swayed back and forth to a hypnotic jungly-rhythm and I began to feel sure that I now understood the meaning of life. Something profound and life-altering seemed to be occurring and that somehow all paths had led to this moment. Sadly, these things never last and as soon as I heard a burst of Ricky Martin I was away and into a lively salsa with a man I'd never seen before. I'm such a tart when it comes to music ....
MARKETING OPPORTUNITY
OK here it is. Prosthetics. Yes, I know what you're thinking but consider this. No-one could fail to notice that, to the average Spanish male, driving with their left arm hanging out the window is de rigeur. Now, with driving skills of uncompromising menace (and I'm being polite here) who's to say these same drivers wouldn't be interested in a looky-likey? A realistic prosthetic arm (for cold or rainy days) could be extremely attractive. Imagination is the key. Models ranging from with hair or without, with gold watch or bracelet, one ring or two, a good manicure or a country look. It could even be animated for those moments when a polite gesture may be needed. You know the sort of thing, a wave that says 'thanks for letting me out' or a cheerful gesture to imply 'no, really, after you'. (If anyone has photographic evidence of this, I want copies.) Anyway, I think Valencia is ready for this, I really do ......
A GYM, JIM, BUT NOT AS WE KNOW IT
There are a lot of gymnasiums in Valencia – even one in an old prison, a beautifully restored building alongside the riverbed opposite Ciné Cité. Quite possibly the one I should have chosen but, no, I take membership in a small gym on the outskirts of the city – and pay the price. There is no air con, I was the only woman and it was a great disappointment to learn, on asking where the treadmills were, to be directed to a complicated chart on the wall which informed me that if I left the building, walked three times round the park outside this would give me 3k of exercise, twice round, 2k and so on. Had I lost something here in translation? But, no, this was the deal and only I seemed to find it, er, faintly bizarre. I have now enrolled with a larger establishment and have even taken up Pilates with a rather nice German chap who is concerned about my inability to stay on the life size bouncy ball that seems to be an integral part of this discipline. I wonder did Joseph Pilates, a sickly, skinny child who developed a system to exercise every muscle in his body whilst lying in the woods of his native Germany, have access to one of these? I think not. And bouncy ball bruises really hurt, as does the lump on my head where I lost control and somersaulted backwards into the wall. Had I been in England the rest of the class would have been shrieking with mirth but the Spanish were all concern and kindness. I was really touched. Until, that is, the big rubber bands came out. Three-metre-lengths of soft, stretchy rubber that may be placed anywhere on the body to extend and PULL those muscles into shape. The first exercise is to place the band around your left foot, keeping your knee bent whilst holding the ends in each hand. Then you push your leg straight, inhale, bring it back, exhale. Simple. Except when you lose your grip and the band turns into a catapult and hits the woman opposite in the chest with a resounding thwack. And yes, I know I was incapacitated by inappropriate laughter but honestly, she was such a baby, it couldn't have hurt that much.
A BRUSH WITH HEALTH
If you've read this column before you will have gathered that I am at my most gregarious and munificent when being fed and watered. This, of course, is one of the few problems with living in Valencia; both good food and wine being far too easily available. And, generally speaking, health doesn't actually come into it. Imagine my delight, then, on being invited to José Navarro's Terra Verda Herboleria for a wholesome salad and, perhaps rashly on my part, a nettle tisane. Now I can be as sensible as the next person - I say this in a removed kind of way because I don't actually know any sensible people – BUT there is sensible and then there is... foolish. Whatever was I thinking? Firstly, the only good nettle is a dead nettle. I now know this. Secondly, I'd forgotten that salad is intolerable without a glass of wine. These are facts. However, the store is fascinating if a little bizarre in its product range – go see for yourself. First opened in 1771 (the family is in its sixth generation) it has now been recognised as the best health food shop in Spain. Deservedly so. Although I do have questions, one of which is: 'Why do people eat Tofu?' What is it exactly? I bought some in 1993 and, despite encouragement from Ken Hom's Cookery Course, found its addition to my wok a deeply inedible disappointment. I gave the rest of it to the cat who played with it for a bit and then lost interest. I rest my case.
I DON'T LIKE TO COMPLAIN BUT ....
With summer in full tilt the beach beckons. And what better way to pass the time, having consumed the gritty cheese and cucumber sandwich washed down with a warm beer, than with a good book. With a shortage of English language books in VLC the only solution is to make rash promises (usually involving blood, death and bequests to relatives; for those who find any titles lurking in their bookshelves without proper ownership, i.e. stolen) to anyone who might lend you something decent. Both Gooru and Babu are good bets because despite being very protective of what they almost view as their progeny, they can't help but want to share the experience of a really good read. HOWEVER on browsing the listings (see books section) I was rather worried to see that two of Babu's choices are about the war. Was this an oversight or do we have a problem here? 'Oh blimey!' she said when cornered, 'they were the only two I've read recently that were worth a mention'. This is patently untrue because the real reason, I can reveal, is that she's been wasting time following (and entertaining us here at tiv) the ongoing saga of the case of the marvellous and appalling Max Mosley. Anyway, she promised a review of something really special, so keep an eye on the review page. And I've already borrowed it, so don't even ask.
THE RAIN IN SPAIN
Does this need a mention? As we’re all utterly sick of it, probably not. I could say it’s the English obsession with weather but, in my experience, Valencians are far worse. Of course, vocabulary is somewhat limited; ‘hot’ and ‘today’ being favourites in the discussion stakes. However, more recently there have been endless street-corner ponderings (do Valencians ponder? Hmmm, again, probably not), noisy protestations, then, about where the sun has gone. This climate-grumbling has superceded the ‘ailment lobby’ which can only be a good thing. Although, if you want to make friends with the locals one of the finest ice-breakers is to ask how their health is … but bring a chair … and lunch…
All this mention of water brings me to the Zaragoza Expo 2008; an exhibition dedicated to water and sustainable development. So far 104 countries have signed-up to exhibit and, apart from the European contingent, Argentina, Cuba, Japan, S Korea, Mexico, Columbia, Oman, Brazil, Peru et al will be present, not forgetting the UN and EU – speaking of which, who will draw the long straw to come and play, all expenses paid? Just who is responsible is a bit fuzzy if one searches but as long as it isn’t Neil or Glenys Kinnock we’ll be all right. I think a special mention should be made of Vatican City’s participation (is that a country?) and I shall desist from making any facile remarks about water into wine ……
The Expo will open with a concert by Bob Dylan – apparently the official artist of Expo 2008 (if anyone can see the connection perhaps they’ll let me know?) and entertainment will be provided by 3,400 acts from more than 350 companies and artists, including Cirque du Soleil. He and I shall be going on the 19th so look out for an article the following week. I say this in hope as, with a 04.30 a.m. start, there is a strong possibility that I shall be found in deep slumber over a cold cup of coffee by 10 o’clock and miss the entire proceedings. In which case, the article will appear in the sailing section.
ALUMNOS vs PROFESORES
It has been sometime since I began Spanish lessons and the term is now almost over. With three lessons a week over the course of the winter and spring, one might feel that by now one should be a confident communicator. Our professor, Salvador, is a charming man. Like many Valencians his roots are in agriculture and when he is not teaching mathematics (yes, maths is his subject) he is in his orange groves, skillfully driving his tractor whilst practicing his flute (2nd flute in an orchestra which shall remain nameless). Whilst I have no doubt he is an excellent maths teacher, we have not benefited from his secondment to teach Spanish to whoever showed up. At first, there were 15 of us, now there are 4. I’m proud to say that by the end of the academic year it is the Brits who are the stalwarts, followed closely by the Armenians and, finally, the Chinese, only one of whom remains. Salvador speaks to us in an exaggerated accent that appears to keep him from falling asleep. He is clearly not impressed by our pronunciation, our failure to grasp the grammatical conundrums of our chosen language or our inability with ser and estar, por and para and, well, those strange expressions that make no sense. ‘They just are!’ he tells us as we gaze at him blankly, protesting feebly that we can’t quite grasp the gist of it all. It is him against us. Despite this, we progress. S is very interested in England and its diverse culture. A few weeks ago he asked two of the class if he could join them one evening for an English beer. The answer was, of course, a smiling affirmative. I can’t help feeling that this may be a mistake and that S may not realize the proclivities of the average Anglo Saxon where beer is concerned. I worry it will end in tears…
OH TO BE IN ENGLAND …..
Someone asked me the other day what I missed most about England. There is very little I cannot do without and it is rare for me to ask visiting friends or relatives to bring something out for me. Books. But these can be ordered via the internet. The thing I do rather miss is the sense of humour. Valencians are kind, generous, helpful and humorous but they don’t smile readily and sometimes you have to practically drag it out of them. It’s not part of their culture. Bill Bryson observed, whilst wandering the length and breadth of England for ‘Notes from a Small Island’, that on watching two English people meet, whether they knew one another or not, that within a very short time they would be smiling. I know that to be true – and I miss it.
Speaking of books. Whilst out in the campo the other day I came across a rather good book club in Domeño. On Thursdays from 12-4 you can browse over 700 titles. There is a membership fee of 5€ and a weekly lending fee of 1€. The village is quite charming with beautiful scenery. A pleasant afternoon’s drive away from the city with a good book and a glass of wine at the end. What more can one ask? Well, yes, sun would be good ….. no rain ….. a bit warmer ….and then there’s that nagging pain in my knee that might be the onset of rheumatism, or worse… ay caramba, so you have it too!
LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU …
My favourite diversion during February was the Paris-based ‘l’ensemble des machines á laver musicales’ - or musical washing machines. Created by the visual artist Jacques Rémus, it was fun, innovative and utterly captivating. The daily showings in the Plaza de la Almoina between 13-24th gave interested crowds the spectacle of roughly 30 washing machines, pulled apart and put back together with wheels, cogs, buckets, cymbals, drums, you-name-it, all precisely configured to produce the syncopated ‘mecamusique’ that was quite extraordinary. The troupe had some great sponsors and was organised by FVEO (fundació Valencia escena oberta) a foundation set up to promote the theatre, music and dance of Valencia. The same company also performed daily in the Plaza de la Reina and the broom-juggling act was phenomenal, bringing huge crowds of delighted onlookers. I do hope you caught at least some of it. What a great city this is for entertainment.
SEE YOU LATER … BURBERRY
I don’t buy magazines but like any woman I like to see what’s happening in the leisure industry - and I use that term very loosely. How could I go on living without knowing about Nicole Kidman’s Botox blunders or Victoria Beckham’s obsession with – well, her obsessions, really. But my absolute favourite is the idiocy that is ‘fashion’. And now I see that ‘the mother’ of all alligator handbags can be bought here in Valencia for the modest sum of 10,000 euros. Now we all know I’m still smarting from Anita Darling’s refusal to give up her handbag (yes, I do know how cheap that sounds) nevertheless, questions must be asked: were any alligators harmed in the making of this must-have handbag? OR do we believe they are made from alligators specially bred in captivity, tended by kindly but eccentric English women of a certain age who spend their time between these appealing reptiles and a donkey sanctuary somewhere to the north of Khatmandu? OR were they dragged grunting and thrashing from some alluvial swamp by modern-day Amazonian warriors screaming ‘Oooohhh I can get shoes AND a handbag from this one!’ I think we all know the answer to this. I can almost hear those copywriters: ‘Hmmm, let’s see, dragged from swamp by Amazons, beaten to death with the jawbone of an ass or er, hairbrushes – hey guys, let’s call it ‘The Warrior’! And so it came to pass that ‘The Burberry Warrior’ was born. A word to the wise: if you already own a ‘Warrior’ and the word mentioned was ‘rehab’ then I advise you to ‘go, go, go’.
FAMOUS? WELL I’VE NEVER HEARD OF IT …
… which just goes to show that I don’t know everything. Last Sunday himself and I were taken by some Valencian friends to La Casa Famós, a charming restaurant in the Algirós region of ‘La Huerta’, the green belt that almost surrounds Valencia city. Situated in an old farmhouse opposite the newly renovated Ermita de Vera, the restaurant has an interesting history (see the full review in the Eat/Drink section) and serves traditional Valencian dishes cooked over orange wood fires. The puddings, all home cooked, are delicious. Excellent wines, too. Sadly, with the capital moving ever closer it seems doubtful that this fertile region, capable of four harvests a year, can survive, which would be a huge loss. Greedy developers take note.
Well, that’s it until next month.
11
LEVANTE EL DEDO
Whenever I buy an English newspaper, perhaps once a month, I see that the old country is in a more than depressing state. What does the rest of Europe think of us for bowing to Brussels, accepting political correctness, allowing immigrants carte blanche, even to changing my old village’s street signs to Russian and Polish (perfectly true) and … well, I could rant on and on but what’s the point? I now live in Spain where, like the French, they raise a finger to it all and do exactly as they please. Quite right.
DRIVE LIKE A VALENCIAN (to the tune of The Bangles’ hit ‘Walk like an Egyptian)
Actually, come to think of it the list is almost endless: live like… die like.. move like.. smoke like …
Having resolved (under threat) not to talk about driving standards I shall progress to pedestrian light incidents. Walking from Media Markt to Hipercor the other day I was struck by the number of people who simply couldn’t wait for the lights but charged lemming-like over the kerbs, dicing with death as drivers accelerated, in the hope (possibly), of gaining further points in the impatience stakes. And now that Fernando Alonso has bought himself a flat in the city - where I’m sure he’ll fit in very well indeed - I can hear the residents observing: ‘Nando a skilful driver? Nah, he just drives like a Valencian.’ I shudder to think what effect the arrival of Formula 1 will have on the city’s driving fraternity.
THE COLOUR OF PAINT
On a whim, I decided to paint our bedroom. At the last make-over I was obliged to doctor the warm, sunny yellow I’d bought until it became reminiscent of The Solent during the racing season (effluent green). Has anyone else noticed that what Spanish colour charts show isn’t necessarily what you get? I chose a pale tangerine but the reality was a disgusting pink that even Barbie would have blenched at. On seeking Himself’s opinion he muttered something (darkly) that had the word ‘brothel’ in the middle. However, it was more than made up for by my charming paint supplier who, on my purchasing said paint, refused my identity card, saying that he wouldn’t dream of taking it as I was a valued customer and he trusted me implicitly. He knew, didn’t he ….?
APRENDE INGLÉS
In the spirit of embracing the culture and language of our chosen country, we bought a television and decided to watch only those channels in Spanish. This would help us with our battle to speak and understand Spanish more easily. Each evening we sit dutifully before the screen, blinking in unison as we struggle to unravel the stream of rapid speech. Sub-titles are good, even though ‘Gente’ on TVE1 seems to be mostly about assassinations, wife-beating and burglary. Sad to say, we have been known to switch to ‘Aprende Inglés’ just to hear something we can readily understand. Although, I’m not sure the teaching techniques are quite the thing. A Spanish friend has been taking lessons for almost a year now and doesn’t actually understand ‘How are you?’ but he can say: ‘I’m pointing at you, are you pointing at me?’ Eh?
SOROLLA EXHIBITION
I queued with 3 friends (not for very long), and went on to enjoy one of the finest exhibitions I’ve seen in a long time. See my review in the arts section – coming soon. In the meantime, go. You won’t be disappointed.
THE HOUSE OF BENLLIURE
On the day following the Sorolla Exhibition I took some friends visiting from England to the Benlliure House on Blanquerias. I went before Christmas but the second visit seemed even more enchanting. This time I took along the tiv photographer and got some great shots. Keep an eye on the arts section during March for a full write-up. If it doesn’t inspire you to see it for yourself then I’ve failed but don’t let my lack of ability dissuade you - go anyway. It gives a wondrous insight into a family of artists at the turn of the 20th century. The furniture and artefacts are stunning and the garden is delightful. A museum that you could go to time and again and still find something you missed on previous visits.
10
HOW WAS IT FOR YOU?
The Jolly Season of Christmas, New Year and Tres Reyes have come and gone and I find myself wrapped in a miasma of January gloom, with only my memories to cheer me. But oh what fun we had. There was Christmas Day with friends in the city – a bacchanalian feast in the tradition of the true Anglo Saxon. Intoxicated, joyous, loud and singing along to the carols we’d grown up with - and several pounds heavier by Boxing Day. Actually, we were all extremely well-behaved – apart from the chocolate episode. Somebody (and you know who you are) gobbled, nay, gorged themselves with the last few chocolates in the box, depriving those of us who had only had one. You may think this trivial (and we all know I’m as shallow as a puddle when it comes to precious things) but chocolate is special. I had to say that. It was important to me. So that it doesn’t happen again. Ever.
On Boxing Day we decided to take a walk, partly to see the Belen just off the Plaza de la Reina. In case you are unaware of these representational scenes of the Nativity of Jesus of Nazareth, you’ll find them in churches all over the city during the Christmas holidays. The construction and display of nativity scenes is part of the Christmas liturgy in many parts of the world, especially those of the Catholic tradition. Some of them are truly amazing and not far short of works of art.
On New Year’s Day we wandered into the Octubre Gallery in the Calle San Fernando to see the beguiling Marilyn Monroe Exhibition, organised in collaboration with the collector Maite Minguez. Lots of frocks, postcards, missives and photos. On screen they also have the famous scene on the sidewalk in that white dress (and, no, it’s not part of the exhibition, sadly) and a re-play of ‘Happy Birthday Mr President’ showing JFK looking less than pleased. A vaguely prurient gaze into the life of an enigmatic woman whose death remains endlessly fascinating. It runs until 10 February and is well worth a visit. It’s also a good opportunity to look at the building that houses the gallery, a centre dedicated to the Valencian culture and language.
RESOLUTIONS
1. Actually read the books I got for Christmas. The ones I usually lie about: ‘Thank you so much, I love it. I’ve always wanted to know how to make piped cushions and pleated skirts.’ Everyone knows I failed my GCE in needlework.
2. Stop going to Zara Home under any pretext whatsoever.
3. Be kind to those less fortunate than myself – this doesn’t include street accordionists who play ‘Guantanamera’ and German drinking songs outside my window in the dead of night. Or English tourists who seem to spot me from two miles away and want to know where to have lunch, where they can buy cheap ceramics, gloves and fans and which bus goes to where and what’s the phrase needed to order said lunch that doesn’t involve olive oil, raw ham and tinned tuna.
4. Stop eating …. the list is endless.
5. Paint the studio (actually, I think that was on last year’s list as well…)
6. Do the ironing before I’m placed in the position of having to wear something straight from the washing line in the vain hope that body heat will straighten out the creases before I get to my destination.
7. Answer my emails within a two-month period.
8. Remember to write a shopping list before I go shopping – and, when I remember to do so, stop writing it in Spanish because I think it will help with the language, when all that happens is I have to ask people in the supermarket what it is I want.
9. Stop buying interesting looking things in Central Market and bringing them home and cooking them and making both me and himself ill for days on end.
10. Finish the novel I started in 2003 (actually, I think that was on last year’s list and the one before …)
So there you have it. Happy New Year. See you in February.
9
MAKE MINE AN ESPRESO DOBLÉ
It’s probably true to say that it’s impossible to get a bad cup of coffee in Valencia. It has been said that Spain is a nation that smokes for the World, one could also say the same is true of their coffee consumption. Even the smallest village has a caféteria. Why then, does every supermarket have a section devoted to the instant variety? And ‘de-caf’, what’s that all about? Coffee should be rich and strong, hot and steamy, like the man you always thought you’d marry, before you grew up (whenever that was/will be) and reality kicked-in. So who drinks this stuff, it doesn’t make sense? The other day, too lazy to switch on the coffee machine, I went for a cup of instant, followed by an increasing sense of panic when I had to decide whether the bathroom or the kitchen sink was nearer for a spit-out. Water from the Turia is more potable. I expect.
WHATEVER LOLA WANTS …
In the apartment directly above mine lives a very charming man called Jesús. He’s divorced and I dread it when it’s his turn to have the children. Two sets of twin boys and Lola who, at 6 years old, has clearly been here in a former life. When you look into those wide brown eyes you can see the woman within, the person she’s going to be – and you recoil. This child-woman can wrap her brothers, her father and her grandparents around her little finger. Even Jesús’ new girlfriend seems captivated, or is she smarter than she looks? But not the dog. Luna, a dachshund puppy. Inexperienced in the ways of assertive (and I’m being restrained here) small children, Luna has found the sense to run when she sees Lola coming. What a smart dog to recognise that the persuasive ‘Ven aqui, Lunita’ means something bad will happen if she obeys. Like being dressed in dolls’ clothes. Last week a tightly-buttoned jacket had to be surgically removed by Jesús and I with my scalpel (I use it for removing pastel crayon when my pictures take a turn for the worse, a frequent occurrence, just in case you were wondering if I had a sideline as a mobile surgeon) which was extremely harrowing. However, worse than Lola are the bongos that said girlfriend has given Jesús for his birthday. Why? Himself and I go out when Jesús plays ‘his music’ which may be described as ‘retro-ambient-digital-discordant-vibic-ethno-garbage’. Arnold Schoenberg (the very father of negative music) sounds kinda-fun-and-groovy compared to this. The problem is that Jesús doesn’t understand rhythm. Syncopation is just a word. When Jesús plays his bongos I get a strange and unpleasant feeling in my water and a tightness across my chest. In short, it does my head in …. Luna, on the other hand (unless she’s deeply musical), views them much as she might a doggy chew. So, if I can only get my hands on them I may just take a leaf out of Lola’s book: ‘Oh Lunita, mire lo qué tengo...
SPEAKING IN TONGUES – OR ARE THEY JUST BARKING?
Still on the subject of things canine, what is this fascination the Spanish have with dog-ownership? Surely it’s a British pastime? But wherever you go, city or country, there is always, somewhere, a dog barking. Is this a communication thing? And, if so, what the hell are they talking about? What do dogs have to talk about? Something to ponder upon, perhaps? In the UK they are disciplined. In Spain, it seems, they are treated like children and allowed to do as they please. They will bark at anything – or nothing – the moon, a shadow, a piece of paper blowing in the wind… You note that all these things are noiseless, that’s because Spanish dogs are almost deaf from being subjected to daily masclétas throughout their sorry lives. It’s like that book you can never remember the title to: ‘And somewhere in the distance a dog barked … and then another… and another… and suddenly they were legion’. Translated from the Spanish is my guess.
ART FOR ART’S SAKE
Have you seen the Sorolla exhibition? (See Home Page under ‘Culture’.) Not only is it free but some friends of mine, out for a walk, passed by the Bancaixa Gallery and were able to get in with hardly any wait, despite rumours that it’s fully-booked until January. Worth a try. Whilst on-the-run from Jesús’ bongos, we went to the Casa-Museo José Benlliuré. Near the IVAM, it’s the house of the Benlliuré family and, whilst not the most famous sons of Valencia (they were all artists), it gives a fascinating insight into life at the turn of the twentieth century. The house (similar to Gaudi’s ‘La Pedrera’ in Barcelona) and its charming gardens are a delight. It also has a room dedicated to current Valencian artists on a rotating basis. Go.
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