“Hello, I’m Mike. Pleased to meet you.”
“Hi! I, I, expected someone much younger!”
So began this 30-something’s first conversation in his first flat in Madrid. The place, Piso 1, numero 6, Calle San Fernando Del Jarama, the date, 12th September, 2009. Only just over three months ago – but it feels like a lifetime.
My flatmate was Philip, a 20-year-old German who had been thrust from the warm bossom of his family and student life to the concrete jungle of Avenida de America, in the north of the Spanish capital.
My route to Studio International Sampere was somewhat different – “gracias a la crisis” (thanks to the recession!) was a phrase I was to repeat several times in the 13 weeks that followed in Madrid.
Taking voluntary redundancy from a career you love and moving to a city where you know no-one and can’t speak the language probably seems a curious step. But for me there was no choice – I had banged on about wanting to live abroad for years, and when the chance finally came to fulfill my dream I couldn’t pass it up.
I had found Sampere through an agency on the internet and after a little haggling over price agreed to spend autumn in Madrid.
Philip "How Old?" Hartmann and fellow students
After that initial chat with Philip, I decided to head into town and meet Lara, from Galicia, who I had met in Edinburgh. Ok, I lied – I knew one person. That first night out really brought home to me what I had let myself in for.
“Estás en Madrid, vale? Vamos a hablar español” said Lara, as we walked through the beautiful Plaza Mayor in the heart of the old town. “Si, vale!” I replied, a little uneasily. That was about the extent of my Spanish – a fact that was glaringly exposed when we met Lara’s friend, Charlie, and headed to the buzzy barrio of La Latina for that classic Madrileño experience – cañas y aceitunes (beer and olives).
Our “conversation” went something like this: (Charlie) “HolaLaraQtal?Mevoyacasamañanaperojoder! miscompeñerosdepisosonhijosdeputa!QtalMike?HasidoaquiantesenMadrid?Hablamosmuyrapidosi???”
Silence…
(Lara and Charlie look at me, indicating I am expected to say something now)
(Me): Si, vale! Me gusta Madrid! (Yes, ok. I like Madrid!)
Monday morning came and I had my entrance exam at Sampere. Somehow, I managed to dredge up present tense verb conjugations I thought I had long forgotten and managed to avoid being put in a beginners class.
But the week took a bit of a dive around Tuesday lunchtime. I became very sick after walking around Madrid for the afternoon, and ended up being couped up in bed with, let’s just say very bad stomach problems, for the next three days. It seemed I had fallen prey to the different food and bugs and stuff (to use its technical term) of Madrid.
We were a somewhat eclectic bunch, me and my first classmates. First there was Dominic, a 40-something surf and salsa fanatic from France. The thing I remember most about Dominic was that he always spoke very quietly, because every day he came to school with a sore head and, apparently, a problem with his ears.
Then there was Carl, the older German professor of European History who had somehow persuaded his university it would be a good idea if they sent him to Madrid to learn Spanish for three weeks.
Carl evidently didn’t have any problems with his head or ears, as he SPOKE VERRRYYY LOUDLY INDEED. He was the most enthusiastic and kindest student I met at Sampere – a thoroughly good egg. Then there were two 17-year-old girls from Switzerland, who’s names escape me. They all seemed to speak very good Spanish, much better me than, and my first six weeks at Sampere was as much about hanging on in there than really learning a lot.
Carl on a day trip to Toledo
Then there were the teachers. And in Candela and Eliza, you couldn’t have found two that were much more contrasting. Candela (officially the prettiest of the teachers) was a ball of energy, always laughing and joking. Eliza, meanwhile, would often start her classes with barely a hello.
Eliza also spoke incredibly quickly, so much so that there times when I found myself misinterpreting our homework instructions and coming to school the next day having done something completely different. But with time I found that Eliza was a fantastic teacher who became increasingly inteligable to me. (Yes, I was learning!!) Then there was Alberto, my teacher from weeks two to six and a Real Madrid fanatic whose love of football began to elicit my first truly spontaneous Spanish conversations.
While the school always provided a friendly, welcoming environment to hang out, I found the mix of students – largely split between 20-year-olds from Switzerland/Germany/France/Holland and older people here for a week or two – rather frustrating. All incredibly nice, but just not the kind of people I usually hang around with.
But then there was Marzio, a 30-year-old Italian guy who was also my flat mate in Avenida de America. When Marzio was around, there was always a fiesta going on. We went to a couple of Irish Bars which staged regular “intercambio” nights. These were organised meeting places where foreigners (or “guiris” as the locals liked to call us, after those non-Spaniards who fought in the Civil War) would exchange their languages with young Spaniards wanting to brush up, usually, their English.
It would also be where you could get drunk and have a good time, making friends in the process. We were all in the same boat and so people always tended to be open to getting along at the intercambios. In fact, it became apparent there was something of a sub-culture among the intercambios in O’Neill’s, Star Studio and elsewhere. Everytime I went along (usually once every couple of weeks), the same characters would always show up.
There was Gala, the blonde girl from Madrid who I spoke to on my first night; Emanuel, from Peru, who share my love of football, and Bupe, from Manchester. Then there was this older guy whom I once had a raging argument about, of all things, domestic abuse. In Spanish. (I was both totally fired up and chuffed to bits at the end).
But the most recognisable of all the intercambio characters was, well, I never found out his name, but basically he was this lofty old bloke (must have been well into his 60s), who swanned around the bars with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, invariably ending up with a gaggle of pretty young girls whom he would on occasions leave with.
But you didn’t have to go to these flesh pots to practice your Spanish. After a couple of weeks, I was introduced my a teacher at my school to Beatriz, an ex-profesora at Sampere who wanted to practice her Spanish. Beatriz would patiently listen to my stumbling attempts at conversation – and even worse, humour – over cups of tea in cool literary cafes around Chueca and Opera. But as the weeks passed, we were able to chat much more freely. The funny thing was we never spoke in English.
My Madrid adventure was beginning to pay dividends…..
December 17, 2009 at 7:45 pm |
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