So then, back in Barcelona for the New Year, this time a little more up market. Usually I stay in the summer in student accommodation with a charming English lady close to Mercado Sant Antoní. On this occasion as I am traveling with she who must be adored we have elected to stay in a hotel, albeit in the same block.

On arrival at BCN I took my erstwhile landlady’s advice and elected to travel on the A1 airport bus. Though I had my doubts initially I have to say I won’t use the train again unless I am traveling beyond Barcelona to the Costa Brava. The service stops immediately outside the terminal door and runs every six minutes to the middle of town, stopping at Plaça de España, Gran Via and Plaça Cataluña. Less than half an hour door to door is great value at just over €4.

As the pound is currently being hammered on the foreign exchange markets, the first thing you notice when you arrive is that, though prices have remained stable here, things cost you a lot more. As I speak a pound is more or less worth a Euro, two years ago a pound would get you €1,40 – big difference! The hotel price, from being a reasonable £75 has shot up to £95. As the Minister for the 2012 Olympics said, “If we had known then what we know now…”, but that being the case, she probably wouldn’t have been in government.

Still, we are where we are.

Our hotel, the Hotel Market, is a boutique hotel created somewhat piecemeal out of a number of apartments. To get from reception to our room, which is 405, you get the new stainless steel, shiny lift up to floor 2. You go down a corridor and through a door into the stairwell of the apartment block into a lift which may well have been designed (and used!) by Gaudi himself and press for the 3rd floor. Because of the strange convention of naming the first floor Pra L this puts you onto the fourth floor along with Alice, the Mad Hatter and the White Rabbit. The main thing is that you must manually close all three doors of the second list or no one in the building can use it. All this is difficult enough when sober, heaven only knows how we’ll manage after a few drinks on New Year’s Eve…

Anyway, we dumped our bags, sauntered down to Els Tres Tombs for a beer and returned at ten o’clock to eat in the hotel restaurant. Clearly the number of covers in the restaurant way outstrips the number of residents they could be expected to feed, though clearly the master plan is to take over the whole building eventually. Even as a resident I would advise booking as the place is very popular with locals. The meal was very good and, as always in Spain, you find yourself thinking the portions are a bit small and three courses later find yourself very adequately fed. Amazing.

Next morning we set out to reacquaint ourselves with the town; up to Pl. Cataluña, down Poratal Del Angels and through Bario Gotico to El Born before crossing over to Barceloneta for a lunchtime beer. As we passed through Plaça san Jaume there was a delightful series of tableux depicting the Nativity.

On the way back for our siesta we stopped for tapas. A a gentleman of a certain age, following the beer at Barceloneta, I needed to answer the call of nature and left Mrs C in charge of ordering. I returned and eagerly awaited our repast; there was pan con tomate, empanadillas, huevos rotos and patatas bravas.

So basically there was bread, pasties, egg and chips and a portion of chips. Ne’er a pimiento de pardon, chocos nor chipirones to be seen – you can take the girl out of Yorkshire…

Mind you, I suppose I’m as bad, there’s an excellent Indian restaurant not too far from here that Pepino introduced me to in the summer, so tonight is curry night.

Hasta pronto…

When not living it up in Barcelona, Gary Child works on great Free educational resources for the Primary classroom.

Mr. Sinatra’s most famous offering begins with the lyric, “And now, the end is near…”, and so it is for me. I have just finished my last intercambio of the fortnight and there is one grammar session and two conversation classes between me and the flight home.

The fortnight has flown by and “…regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention…”.

But I will anyway. I booked the course which included a fiesta and so lost a day’s tuition. No biggy. The thing I did that I won’t do when I repeat the experience is to book so many intercambios. Two a day is wa-a-a-ay too many when added to three ninety minute classes. No, next time, the standard course of two sessions in the morning and probably three intercambios in each week will be enough. You get all Spanished out.

But “…I did what I had to do, and saw it through without exemption…”, thank God I had two cancellations.

Of the seven people that I have met there are two with whom I have an arrangement to meet for a drink and a chat at New Year when I’m back in town with my beloved. Strictly social though, no classes and no formal intercambio.

I love Barcelona and I have been here often enough now that I feel no compunction to traipse round all the usual tourist gaffs unless there is someone with me that necessitates ‘tour guide’ mode. I have always tried to do something on every visit that I haven’t done before. This time it was to be a visit to Tibidabo, but with all the intercambios I just couldn’t face the hassle. Maybe next time, maybe not.

I stay in a shared flat with a charming English lady to whom I was introduced via the language school. I have also stayed with her on weekend breaks with my son, and though student accommodation may not be appropriate when traveling with Mrs C, we will make a point of calling in when we are in town. It has become a home from home, a pied-a-terre in BCN, and it is sufficient for me that I come and live in the community for a couple of weeks, learn a bit and relax a lot.

I suppose it must fall upon me to write a little about the city at the end of this series.

If you’ve never been then do make the effort. It has taken me the best part of five years of visiting a couple of times or more a year to get round all there is to see and, as no series of articles on the web would be complete without a list of dos and don’ts here’s mine:

DO make use of the public transport system. Frankly, I cant imagine anywhere that is better organised. The Metro is awesome and runs like clockwork, added to this is a comprehensive network of buses and local trains to the Costa Brava and Costa Dorada. There are funicular railways, chair lifts and a cable car and with the exception of the latter two, within the city limits, one ticket fits all.

I usually buy a T10 – 10 rides for just under €7 – that’s 50p a ride to you – Boris take note. Further, the price is per journey so if you get off the Metro and catch a bus to continue your journey the system knows and only charges you once. Fantastic, If transport was like this in my home town I’d sell the cars.

For those that can remember the old white bicycle thing in the 60’s whereby if you came upon a white bike in the street you could purloin it, ride it and leave it for somebody else to use when you’d done, there’s Bicing (pronounced Bee-thing).

Not really for tourists, this – you set up an account on the internet and you get a card. You swipe the card at the Bicing station and take a bike for which you are charged a pittance until you drop it off at any other Bicing station. More and more of these are cropping up and they seem very popular. Barcelona is a city built on a hill and on a sunny day many bikes are ridden downhill to the beach but folk prefer to take the metro home. No matter, good for the planet. (sigh!)

I reckon for a tourist to take one of these bikes out on Barcelona’s streets would be on a par with crocodile wrestling and free fall parachuting – check your travel insurance carefully.

DO make a point of seeing the Magic Fountains. For those that can remember the TV series the Persuaders – this is the fountain in the title sequence with Tony Christie singing “Avenues and Alleyways”. It never fails to entertain and its not often you get the chance to see a crowd of thousands applauding coloured water. Strange but true.

DO extend your vocabulary by trying things on the menu about which you have no idea – nothing is poisonous and some things are remarkably good. I discovered the Catalan word for sea snails in this way. Yes, I ate them all. I was dining with an Austrian bloke I’d met at the language school and didn’t want to let the side down, maybe it’ll be a while before I have them again.

DO remember that no one goes out much before 10pm to eat or for a drink. This can be hard to get the hang of, but try to have a light snack about 5pm to put you on. Once you get into the habit of eating so late it’s a dog to break once you get back to the UK.

DO make a point of finding Plaça San Felipe Nuri. Amongst all the bustle of Barcelona this tiny square is a haven of peace and tranquility. Round the church door great chunks of masonry have been removed either by bullets or shrapnel, it depends which version of the story you believe. The politically correct story is that a bomb dropped in the square during the civil war, the other story is that locals were taken into the square and executed with machine guns. The concentration of the zone of fire seems to me to support the latter but who am I to say, CSI I ain’t. The atmosphere in the square is very intense. Beware, the coffee shop belongs to the 4 star hotel and is un poco caro.

DO try to find Los Quatre Gatos. Walk down Portal del Angels from El Corte Inglés in Plaça Catalunya. There’s an alley on the left before the Bicing station somewhere. It is well worth a visit, like stepping back in time. I recommend the menu del día. Dress reasonably well and don’t take any truck when the Maitre D’ tries to sit you in the bar area. Gently insist that you would like to sit in the main sala. This is as close as you’re ever likely to get to Picasso – it was one of his favourite haunts.

DO explore the back streets of Barceloneta. The front drag next to Port Vell is set up to take the money from tourists. Real people live real lives in Barceloneta and the multitude of bars and restaurants is a testimony to this. La marcha is good here. My particular favourite is Maians on Carrer Carles.

DO enjoy la marcha but remember that nobody loves a borrach@ – especially the Mossos. These are the local, Catalan police. They are a youthful, particularly good looking squad of enthusiastic young officers. By and large they are helpful and charming but if you find yourself on the wrong side of them back off sharpish as their youthful exuberance is likely to lead you to biting off more than you can chew, and chewing may be difficult without your front teeth…

Do visit the Boquería – the market half way up Las Ramblas. Marvel at how bright and shiny the fruit is and the breadth of varieties there are. Hover around the sweet stall looking hesitant and they will ask you if you want to try some. Tour the fish market – no need to ask if is fresh, most of it is still wriggling, snapping and gawping like a silent choir.

DO take pot luck and explore one of the barrios away from the tourist traps, Eixample is a safe, well heeled area with many cafes and bars and a stroll up Avenida De Gaudi from La Sagrada Familia to Hospital de San Pau passes a pleasant hour, Gracia is good too.

DON’T wear your “Mug me, I’m a guiri” uniform. I have never had any trouble but better safe than sorry. First, when you reclaim your baggage take off the baggage handling label that was put on at check-in, it says “I have just arrived and may be a little less than orientated”. Wearing the classic guiri attire of beanie, shirt and shorts complete with sunburn, socks and sandals does mark one out somewhat. Ask yourself, if you went to London, who dresses like that? The Americans used to when they could afford to come and it marked them out for the unscrupulous as easy to over charge and rip off. Decide for yourself…

DON’T carry your wallet in your back jeans pocket. If you don’t know why, go to the Video Shop, rent a copy of Oliver and fast forward to the scene where Dodger takes Oliver back to Fagin’s den. Not quite as prevalent as Madrid but they’re there, looking for the easy mark. Beware, ladies, of slinging your bags over the backs of chairs and ten cuidado if anyone approaches you in a group with a map looking for directions…

DON’T be tempted to walk home if you’re out after the Metro and the buses are shut down. Like any other big city there are small areas in which you might feel uncomfortable. For me these are few and far between – coming from one of the less salubrious barrios of Leeds, I have never felt particularly threatened – but I have been with friends that were a little jumpy on occasions There are tons of taxi’s in Barcelona and I have never paid more than €6 for any ride, ever – so get one, its almost as cheap as the Metro if there are four of you and, of course, they run door to door.

DON’T cross the eight lane roads anywhere except at the crossings, the locals don’t and they have loads of time to practice. This is good advice even on the piddly side streets. Remember that traffic turning into the road you are crossing can go if no one is using the crossing, there is a flashing amber light to tell them this, and it can be confusing at first for pedestrians. But, when the green man is lit, walk and they will wait for you. Continually tell yourself to look the other way for the traffic – especially after a few drinks.

DON’T walk anywhere uphill in the heat and humidity, get the bus or Metro. By all means stroll down the hill back. Parc Guell is very nice…

DON’T get duped when buying a beer on Las Ramblas. You say, “Una cerveza.” He says “¿Grande?” and you nod. The bloody thing will be a three litre stein like a bucket when it comes and cost the best part of £20. Buyer beware. Best order a caña, and if you want more order another – at least it wont get warm that way.

DON’T dally watching the blokes playing the game with three shells and a pea, or any other variation of same, and certainly don’t make a bet. This is usually a blind for pickpockets. Beware, also, when watching the street entertainers, they are making a living but the pickpockets aren’t fussy.

DON’T buy the cardboard cutouts of the Simpsons that dance to the music… it’s a con, come on, wise-up…

DON’T pay over a tenner to go inside the Sagrada Familia and up the lift for the view. There are building sites all over Barcelona you can see for free and if you want a view of the city go on the funicular railway from Paral-lel up to Monjuic, the price of the ride is included in your ten run ticket. Better to walk round the back of the church (the newer bit) sit and have a beer and look at the building from there. It really is remarkable.

DON’T go to Starbucks unless you have a very good reason, the coffee is better and cheaper almost everywhere else. Mind, the Starbucks on Muntanner/Tevasseria de Gracia is permitted. Not for the coffee – for an intercambio – its quiet, empty, and has aircon.

To continue the Sinatra theme “…and so I face the final curtain…”.

Here’s hoping you’ve enjoyed my letters from BCN. I’ve had a great fortnight, met some lovely people and learnt a great deal. What was hard this time last year seems easy-peasy now, but there are more challenges.

I would encourage you to have a go if you are tempted but I have deliberately refrained from recommending a school or giving details in case anyone follows in my footsteps and is disappointed. You need to do the lot from scratch, do the research, book the flights and the accommodation to get the the most out of the experience.

I did, but then (I can’t resist)…

“…I did it my wa-a-a-y”

Cue applause.

(Mr Sinatra has left the building)

When not living it up in Barcelona, Gary Child works on great Free educational resources for the Primary classroom.

So, I’m half way through the second week of my fortnight’s Spanish course in Barcelona. The mornings continue to be excellent, 90 minutes grammar followed by 90 minutes conversation. Different teachers this week but, looking at the logistics of organizing a new crop of students each week and jigging the groups to match the teaching talent, this is neither surprising nor, it transpires, a detriment.

This week we have Rosina for grammar and Daniel for conversation. Both are good at what they do and the lessons are well planned, with good photocopied resources, and well executed.

WOAH! Heaven forfend that this should turn into some kind of clandestine OfSTED report on an unsuspecting language school somewhere in Barcelona – back to the gossip…

In a previous post I explained how I intended to dip the pm session in school. After a long weekend – the 15th of August is a national holiday in Spain – my batteries are re-charged and I decided to give it another shot. The star-crossed lovers have shuffled off (to quote Bill twice). Things are better, so I’m still on board.

Yesterday was a hard day:

Up at 7.30, school for 09.00, three ninety minute sessions, home for shower and a Skype* session with the Grandchildren, the Metro to Sant Andreu for an intercambio til 18.30, Metro back to Urgell for a second intercambio, 21.45 – breakfast.

It’s my own fault I arranged all this and I know now that the morning sessions and one intercambio a day is probably enough.

Until just before this afternoon’s intercambio today was going to be the same, and tomorrow, and Thursday. Then, like manner from heaven, my Thursday evening cancelled, followed swiftly by this evening’s cita. Cue huge sigh of relief! When I do this again I’ll know better, but for now I had been let off the hook…

I am told that the people of Barcelona are quite reserved and more difficult to engage than Madrileños. Ten days in and glimmers of recognition are beginning to occur in the places I frequent. When I was ordering desayuno last night the waiter tipped me the wink that the draught beer was warm and that I ought to order una mediana, which is local twang for a 33cl bottle, in this case Estrella.

This morning I arrived at my usual coffee spot, sat myself down and took out my deberes. ‘Last minute Charlie, as usual’, as my mum would say, but the teacher would never know when it had been done. Actually, that’s not strictly true as half way through my ‘letter of complaint to the alcalde’ about the state of the streets she plonked down at the next table with her colleagues. No matter.

Prior to their arrival several minutes had passed and there was no sign of a waiter. This week is the ‘Fiesta de Gracia’ – someone had clearly joined in and overslept. As my caffeine debt ticked over into unbearable, without a word being spoken, the jefe appeared, personally, sporting a tray with my usual café Americano, hot water and a Magdalena. Wow, that’s service! He did the same for the bloke with the shaky hands with whom I now have a nodding acquaintance. Jamon de jabugo y una caña in his case. Hence, I presumed, the shakey hands – then I remembered that I had beer for breakfast yesterday, albeit after nine o’clock at night.

As usual this morning’s session began with the ritual listing of what we’d all done after school yesterday. It’s like the language school version of stretching, scratching and rubbing ones eyes. I chipped in that I’d had two intercambios and sat back, thinking ‘That’s my bit done’.

Serves me right for being smug, my ace serve was met with a vicious top-spin return. “…and what did you learn?” It took a second before it registered that Rosina was talking to me. I was on the spot, like a bloody job interview where you’re racking your brains to think of an answer that won’t make you look a prat. On top of that it had to be in Spanish.

It was in this moment that I understood why every schoolchild in the world when faced with the perennial paternal inquisition, “What did you do at school today?” invariably comes back with “Nothing”, thus negating all supplementary questions. In the end I did what came naturally and jibbered on for a bit whilst Rosina nodded and feigned interest.

I have never been so happy to hear a ‘Bueno’, as I was when she smiled moved on to the next victim.

Having been awarded this evening off and had time to think about all the things I could have, or should have said, and at the risk of sounding poncey, the intercambio is to the language class what Georges Seurat is to Rolph Harris.

The grammar lessons and the conversation class are like a four inch brush, they cover huge tracts of canvass quickly with broad brushtrokes; the intercambio allows you to get into the detail, one point at a time. You can pick into the fiddley little details, the nuances that have always puzzled you or that fly by without a mention whilst banging on with a lump hammer about tenses and moods in the first session and saving the planet in Spanish after the break.

¡Ten cuidado! – ‘the devil is in the detail’ as they say and ‘you can have too much of a good thing’. Ten hours a day in a foreign tongue is exhausting.

Better to build in time to reflect as the educationalists would say (to continue the OfSTED theme). To raggy lads like yours truly this translates as ‘Make sure you kick back, relax, watch the world go by and do bugger all for at least half of your waking hours…”

Un saludo, me voy…

*footnote: (In deference to Bridget Jones) ‘Note to self : Skype is a difficult concept for a two year old to grasp.’ – he’s still not sure whether or not grandad is trapped in the computer.

When not living it up in Barcelona, Gary Child works on great Free educational resources for the Primary classroom.

It is peculiar to this day and age that everyone has the potential to put themselves in contact with complete strangers, and enter into a mutually beneficial relationship, at the click of a mouse. I refer to the intercambio and not the numerous nefarious activities which, allegedly, take place with the assistance of modern technology.

My mother would have a fit. I can hear her now:

“You’re what!? You’re going to travel to a foreign country, full of foreigners, and meet a complete stranger, a foreigner, in a bar, a foreign bar, in a foreign city you barely know? What for? You’re just going to talk? Talk!? Don’t come running to me if you end up in the gutter with your throat slit, your wallet gone and your passport being sold on the black market..!”

Just as well I didn’t tell her then, eh?

Intercambios, I have discovered to my great delight, are a wonderful thing. So much so that I have elected to dip my arranged classes in the afternoons and do intercambios instead. Invisible Ruben and the star crossed lovers wont notice I’m not there, which leaves the lovely Laura having a one to one with the teacher. Everybody wins.

There is, apparently, misconception that intercambios are what you do when you move to live in a country for a period to learn the language. I suppose I was concerned that this might be the case. But, no, it seems that the Spanish are keen to speak to a wide sample of us native English speakers to experience the whole breadth and depth of our mispronunciation and mangling of our mother tongue.

So much so, in fact, that I have needed to be careful to try to make sure all respondents get a slice of the cake, so to speak. What’s the best way to go about arranging intercambios? In short I have no idea but what follows has worked for me:

How do I make contact?

This would be nigh on impossible without the internet. Access to the web and an email address are an absolute must. The websites I used were talkconmigo.com and loquo.com. I started about a fortnight before I was due to travel as people, by and large, can’t plan reliably much further ahead.

Talkconmigo.com is specific to Barcelona. You register and open a free account with a user name a password and your email address, if you are aesthetically pleasing you could upload an image of yourself. I didn’t bother. Draw your own conclusions.

Next, you select the kind of people with whom you might like to converse. Options include only males, only females, both males and females, as well as being able to select an age group. So I clicked for the anybody over 45 option. Being seen chatting with a pretty young thing in her 20’s would, I am sure, be very good for my ego but we’d certainly have little or nothing in common about which to talk.

Okay, once you have clicked the Submit button, the database produces a list of potential victims and then it’s up to you to click on the ones you wish to contact. I typed a little about me and my availability in to the first person’s contact box, then copied it and pasted it into each subsequent victim’s contact box, and sat back to await the responses.

All correspondence takes place via the site. Talkconmigo.com protects your email address and emails you with a link to let you know when someone has responded. It’s a bit like being a kid again, waiting for the postman to come at Christmas and birthdays.

Loquo.com covers the whole of Spain so you need to select a town. Again you need to open an account, etc., and again you get the option to protect your email address from public view. The section you want is under Community and is called Language Exchange. Click the place your listing link and the rest is plain sailing, paste your details in like before, click Submit and wait for the fun to start.

With Loquo.com the listings are organized with the newest posts at the top so gradually your posting will drop down the lists. After 60 days the post is deleted but you can elect to stop it whenever you want. I posted on two consecutive days.

IMPORTANT: If you are only available for say a week or two it’s a must that you make this clear in the info you post. Further, if you are only available at certain times when you are in situe it’s worth pointing this out as well. In the end I created an online calendar. I used iCal because I have an account with .Mac but Google do a perfectly adequate online calendar that’s free. Make sure all your correspondents have a link to the calendar and as each appointment comes make sure you update it. This allows people to browse your horario before they get in contact and saves a lot of to-ing and fro-ing to negotiate times.

So, I’ve received some responses. What next…?

Well, good manners dictates that you reply as quickly as practical. At this early stage an agreement in principle that you will meet and that the fine details can be sorted out later is probably sufficient. Subsequent meetings can be arranged once you find out whether you can stand each other’s company. Luckily I have managed to secure re-bookings, so to speak. Closer to the time you will need to get down to the nitty gritty of the where and the when. There are pitfalls here…

Metro entrances are good places to meet if your target city has a Metro. Except that most Metro stations have at least two, more likely three or four, entrances. Forero Pepino and I discovered this in Sol, in Madrid, earlier this year whilst attending the GME. Having agreed to meet at the Metro in Sol to go for a beer, we spent fifteen minutes sorting out where one and other were. Bear in mind (spot the Madrid pun here?) we both had mobiles, both had each others’ numbers and both more or less speak the same language!

Tourist attractions are a double-edged sword. They are easy to find but will likely be crawling with people – tourists. One guiri probably looks like every other guiri in a seething mass of cameras, rucksacks, shorts sandals and sunburn.

Bars and cafes are good places to meet. Best let your ‘local’ chose a suitable bar, but make sure you get the name of the plaza or street too. I can’t imagine it would be much fun standing alone in bars of the same name in barrios several Metro stops apart. Hopefully your contact will chose a suitable place, the Hard Rock Café isn’t particularly conducive to the discussion of the finer points of grammar.

Parks and gardens are another option fraught with danger, especially when faced with endless paths, statues and monuments carefully designed to look alike to the foreign eye. It took me twenty minutes to feel my way back to the hidden Metro station in Madrid’s Retiro park, I walked past it twice for Pete’s sake!

The Spanish stereotype suggests that as a nation the Spanish are invariably late, but this has not been my experience, so be on time.

Okay, we found each other, now what…?

Enjoy the experience. You are both there to help each other. Agree to start in one language and change over at some point to the other. Quick interjections for correction of tenses, vocab and the like are okay, particularly when your partner is stumbling. But don’t continually interrupt with long explanations or your new found friend may get brassed off, glance at his watch a few times and suddenly remember a third cousin’s saints day he needed to attend.

A good thing to do is to be prepared with a piece of paper and jot down points that you need to bring up and review at the end of the session or when you switch languages.

Be prepared to talk about yourself, your family, likes and dislikes, pets, hobbies, politics, sport, your house, your town, the monarchy, taxes, anything goes. Do ask questions and show an interest in your host’s experiences and opinions and remember to listen carefully when he is talking.

If you are going to do more than one intercambio in the day try to leave yourself a couple of hours to relax and ‘come down’ between sessions; maybe take a shower, have a meal, read a little in English, etc. to clear your head and be fresh for your next victim.

Intercambios are mentally exhausting, an hour in each language is probably enough. Some of your hosts will be experienced at the art of the intercambio and lead you effortlessly through the whole process, some will be harder work and you will have to do the spadework. In either case you will come out at the other end with a feeling of well being, satisfied that you have made a connection at some level with another culture in a language that is not your own.

So, how was it for you…?

Up to now I have partnered with four individuals; two are teachers of Spanish as a second language, one is a primary school teacher and one a photographer. All of them are delightful people; helpful, happy to practice their English and, in return, to help me unlock the mysteries of their own native tongue.

My old French teacher insisted that learning a language was not difficult. After all, he maintained, even the dimmest of French people manage to learn French. And now I know that, in a way, he was right because even the dim and dopey live one long intercambio. Learning a language as we did with him by turning to page 17 and parroting an exercise on irregular verbs can be a soul destroying experience.

I know in my heart of hearts that there has to be the bookwork, particularly when there is little or no access to native speakers of your target language. The relationship between the hard grind of the bookwork and the intercambio might be likened to that of the climbing of the north face of the Eiger and hang gliding off the top. Weeks of planning and hard work for an hour or so soaring like a bird.

I thoroughly recommend the experience to all!

When not living it up in Barcelona, Gary Child works on great Free educational resources for the Primary classroom.

I do not do mornings well. For this reason I need to be up and about for a good while before I am ready to interact with the rest human race, more so when this is going to take place in a foreign language.

When in Barcelona to study Spanish for my annual fortnight, on school days I am up at about 7.15. The school is a 20 minute walk from where I stay but, as the arthritic knee I mentioned previously doesn’t work so well until I get it going, I get the Metro to school and walk back.

Two flights of stairs down, a 90 second ride and three escalators up puts me on the terrace of a bar outside the school by just gone eight o’clock. My daily routine will see me order café Americano and a glass of hot water to pour in to create a longer drink.

I arrived this year in my usual spot and within ten minutes was approached by probably the oldest hooker in Spain. She certainly is persistent, having now been graciously declined by yours truly for the second consecutive year.

In one or two areas of Barcelona being approached is a fact of life. In the streets round Raval it is possible to be propositioned several times as you walk through, often by very pretty girls. It can be flattering when you’re fat, balding and in your fifties, until you recall the commercial enterprise that underlies the come hither. This, my second encounter with la vieja, left me pondering just how desperate I actually look…

Pues nada as they say, in to school to take the induction test which was soon marked before placing me in my class. If you are over fifty as I am, you have to expect to be the oldest kid on the block. You will almost certainly have to sit and listen to an endless tirade of anti American foreign policy mini lectures and mindless unquestioning eco-bollocks.

Mind, you could have heard a pin drop when, up to my eyeballs in savers of the planet, I suggested that their beloved Nelson Mandela spent twenty odd years in jail for terrorist offences. Out of sheer devilment I suggested that there was no way Ground Force would have extended the courtesy of redesigning Winnie’s garden, as they did Nelson’s, for fear of what might be lurking there! My tongue nearly popped right through my cheek at one point.

Anyway, last year I was in a class of eight to ten, this year there are five of us. I don’t know whether there are fewer students in school or just fewer working at this slightly higher level. The class this year has three German girls, all nurses on a government funded sabbatical, and an Italian bloke. All four of them are in their late twenties and good company. We do 90 minutes grammar, have a coffee break, and then 90 minutes conversation. Both sessions fly by and are very productive. For most of the students the day is over at 12.15.

The trick is to know exactly what you want out of the fortnight’s lessons before you go. Last year I needed to get the past tenses straight in my head, this year I need to get a feel for the subjunctive (though I know 20 years down the line I will still be picked up on it).

Once you have achieved your aim don’t try to over learn, you wont absorb and internalize if you cram, as soon as you get off the aeroplane it will be gone. It is better to have a walk, a sit in the dappled shade of a quiet square and sip tinto de verano whilst you mull over that you have learnt and internalize it. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

This year, however, I have elected to do the intensive course, which has an extra 90 minute conversation class in the afternoon. The makeup of this class is entirely different. And there’s the rub.

Again, I am with four others, all Germans this time, two boys and two girls. One of the boys, Reuben, has only been seen once – Peter Brady would be proud of him. Both girls are about 18 years old. Laura is pretty, as are all girls of that age, and a good student; Sara is, frankly, stunning. There is no other word for it. Like a fine work of art it is hard not to look, such is her beauty – and herein lies the problem.

Ralf is 24 and a nice enough chap, I imagine. He certainly must be intelligent as he is attending Barcelona University studying Applied Maths. Put politely, the presence of Sara next to him is not having a good effect on Ralf. Bluntly ‘He’s like a dog with two dicks’, as my grandad was wont to say. If you imagine one of those wobbly headed toys, once fashionable to have in the back windows of cars, with a persistent hideous grin on its face then you more or less have it nailed.

So, all the time the lesson is going on, whenever they are not directly involved, these two are whispering, doodling on each other’s hands, staring into each others eyes and generally being touchy feely.

There are a number of options, I reckon. The first is to demand that the school supply vomit bags, so sick-making is the performance. The second is to give Ralf a substantial, fatherly slap up the side of the head. Satisfying as that might be, the likelihood is that I shall take the third way, which is to dip the class and do something more productive, lunch and a beer maybe.

I don’t feel too bad about doing this. There is no break to speak of and the law of diminishing marginal returns sets in – the more you work the less you achieve once the optimum has been passed. Concentration levels are not so good after the morning’s exertion, certainly not for Ralf (I don’t know what he does for the rest of the day but I might respectfully advise that he stops it, lest his eyesight be adversely affected!)

I actually do reckon that the third session is too much and I shan’t book it next year. What’s more I have managed to arrange at least one intercambio every day which I am finding way more useful than spectating whilst the Liebegeschichte plays out before my eyes and Ralf, the gibbering German, drools all over his Arian supermodel.

When not living it up in Barcelona, Gary Child works on great Free educational resources for the Primary classroom.

Domingo. A day of rest before I start my fortnight’s intensive Spanish course in Barcelona. Or so I thought. I was awakened earlier than I would have liked by the arrival of a text from home that just said “Ring me”. Naturally, panic set in. Rather than ring and clock up a bill bigger than the national debt, I texted back, “On Skype in 5 mins”.

I have to confess it was a long five minutes. Had there been an accident? Was the dog ill? Were the grandkids okay in Mojacar with their mum and dad? Had the roof fallen in?

It was none of the above. It turned out that I had left my medication on the work surface in the kitchen. No biggy for me, but ‘her indoors’ seemed concerned that with the sunshine, the relaxed atmosphere and the two weeks complete lack of stress, I might have a problem with my blood pressure. ‘Don’t be silly’ wasn’t working and so I agreed to set out on a quest to source an alternative supply of little asprin and felodipine, lest she had to repatriate me for terminal snoozing.

So to la farmácia, my first intercambio of the fortnight.

Little asprin, no problem. Ibuprofen for arthritic knee, no problem. Felodipine? Nowhere to be seen. Of course it would have helped had I spelt it correctly on the paper I handed to her with my list of requirements. They even went on ‘Google for Chemists in Spanish’ and could find no trace. I returned to the flat convinced I would sort it out but, of course, I couldn’t spell it so couldn’t find it either. Still, I could always go back to cilazapril. It gives me a cough but it would do for a fortnight.

Back to the farmácia for cilazapril, but still no luck. I would have to see a doctor for a ‘receta’ for cilazapril. I was told that there was a Sala de Urgencías two blocks away and my heart sank at the prospect of spending the rest of the day hanging about to be seen.

And so to my second intercambio, with los médicos…

I explained the problem at reception. They asked for my European E111 card, no problem, and my passport, which was back at the flat. My heart sank again – it was hot and a walk of way over a kilometre round trip – but, joy of joys, they were prepared to accept photo IDs from a couple of agencies I work with in the UK and a snapshot of my grandchildren.

As they filled in a form for me, photocopied my E111 and IDs and cooed over my nietos pelirojos, I wondered how long I would have to camp out in the waiting area. Not too long as it turned out. I just love the way that Gary almost rhymes with Dalí when called out in Spain.

So, straight in. Brilliant. Name? DOB? Do you have allergies? Are you on any other medication? God this was easy, even in Spanish! Then the penny dropped. This was triage – like they do in the fast food restaurants when they say they’ll serve you within sixty seconds of being seated – you get a placemat, a knife and fork and a glass of water and you’re served.

They have triage in our local hospital, mainly to assess your ability to survive the ritual four hour wait, before putting you in the queue to get into the queue to actually see a doctor. Finding the Holy Grail would probably be less of a challenge than A&E on a Friday night.

No matter, with my trusty iPhone full of podcasts, I returned to base camp.

In the end it took forty minutes thread to needle. Very impressive. The place was spotlessly clean, air-conditioned. The young lady doctor I saw, the nurses and the receptionists were all stunningly pretty in their crisp white scrubs. It was like being on a TV set in a US medical soap opera, fair cheered me up it did.

Anyway, back to the chemists with my receta and sorted! One thing that always strikes me about Spain is the number of farmácias that there are – sometimes half a dozen in the space of a hundred yards. Can the Spanish as a nation really be that ill? No importa, I was able to assure Mrs C. that on this occasion there would be no necessity to make arrangements to have me interred on foreign soil… and I had most of the day left to reacquaint myself up the sights and sounds of Barcelona!

When not living it up in Barcelona, Gary Child works on great Free educational resources for the Primary classroom.

After listening to the Notes in Spanish Advanced podcast about life in a Spanish office recently, I thought I’d write a little about my experience of some of the most striking differences from my viewpoint as a long term UK office worker now working in various Spanish offices over the past 18 months.

The biggest (and the most obvious) thing that I still struggle with at times is how to get my head around the well publicised relaxed attitude to timekeeping.

In my old UK company, we would routinely receive emails reminding us that 9 am was the start of the "working" day, and not the time you should be stubbing your fag out against the wall outside and thinking about dragging your lazy, no-good, workshy carcass into the building only to then go for an unfeasibly long pee, get a coffee and chat to your colleagues about last night’s television (OK, I’m paraphrasing). Something along the lines of "You should be at your workstation, ready to work at 9 am" was the usual message.

Lunch time was a fixed 45 minutes and the same rules applied then. In fact, this was so well drummed into us that, if you strolled back in 5 minutes late, your own dear colleagues (from outside your department) would look at you with scorn and pass comment either behind your back, or to your face in the form of a lame joke. The management had clearly done their job on us, as the staff were effectively policing each other in the form of an internalized company Gestapo!!! (Although, we’d of course swapped finger screws for finger pointing). A sad situation indeed.

Here in Spain, it’s very different. Last week, when I asked what the hours were in my new job, my boss kind of shrugged, expelled a lot of air, umm’d and arr’d , then finally said, "Well, come in about 9am ish, lunch is roughly 13.30 until whenever, and most people start leaving about 18.30, or earlier if it’s a Friday." (She then immediately asked if I wanted to go for a coffee with her). Ah well, that’s clear then, thanks!

So, not a bad situation, but totally useless for an anally retentive, logically minded Virgo like me who can only cope with life if there’s a "rule" of some kind to help avoid unnecessary confusion! I still find myself rushing back to work after lunch, only to find an empty office, and then chastising myself for being such a pillock. For someone who prides himself on having done a reasonably good job of fitting into Spanish life, this work timetable thing is an irritatingly persistent problem that I still need to shake off before my hair falls out or I start cultivating a stomach ulcer.

One important note regarding working hours though is that this relaxed attitude all goes in the bin when there is extra work to be done. Anyone who says that the typical Spanish office worker or manager doesn’t work long hours on the whole, is point blank lying. In the UK, I would be out of the office at 5pm and home soon after. Here, many people will stay until gone 8pm or later, routinely. My latest finish in Spain so far has been 01.30 am (I was the last one in the office that time), although my worst experience was when I did a 4 am start to fly to Paris, worked until the office shut at 9pm, then continued in the hotel until 04.30 the next morning with my colleagues.

That was an exception, but what surprised me most was that my colleagues shrugged it off with a casual – "what do you expect, we’ve got a lot of work on". I was like the living dead the next day, and couldn’t string two words together in English let alone in Spanish, whereas they seemed to spring back to life with nothing more than a strong coffee.

Then there are those little daily "excursions" that all office workers like to make whenever possible. In my old UK company, if you need to go out during work time, then basically, it better be important. Dentist and doctors appointments are the most well used excuse, but nowadays often need backing up with a proof of appointment card. In Spain, you can nip out for pretty much anything – Coffee, dry cleaning, bikini wax, pay a cheque in the bank, catch up with your friend who’s working down the road.

In a nutshell anything goes and no one raises an eyebrow. Fabulous situation. However, when a colleague in my old UK office would pop out for something not strictly kosher, "Operation Cloak and Dagger" would kick-in and we would routinely cover for them if the phone rang, telling the caller in a virtual whisper (so as not to draw unwanted attention from the Gestapo-type colleagues from other departments as mentioned earlier) that the person was "unavoidably detained in a meeting".

In Spain, none of this amateur dramatics rubbish is necessary and a quick "Yeah, she’s just popped out for a coffee, ring back in about 20 mins" is perfectly acceptable. After hearing this done a million times, it struck me how the caller would never ask, or be asked, to leave a message. It’s always left to the poor caller to somehow psychically know when the errant employee has thought it fitting to return to their desk, and then call again, often only to be told exactly the same thing (with the clock reset to the start of the "20 minutes" of course!)

Another shocker for me has been the strength of unionism in some offices here. I was recently working in a very large and well known IT consultancy, and my email inbox would be filled with the daily gripes of the worker’s union (some serious, some truly pathetic). Everyone thought it was completely normal, except for me. I know some companies in the UK are heavily unionised, and maybe I’m extremely naíve after growing up with a Thatcher government as I only associate unions with shipyards and transport workers etc, but I just didn’t expect it in a privately owned IT Consultancy.

We even had a few "sit in protests" complete with painted bed sheets tied to mop handles to make banners. It’s a strange sight in a plush and shiny office full of designer chairs and smartly dressed consultants busily working away, to look across and see a group of (comparatively) scruffy protesters "illegally occupying" a nearby area of the office in order to draw attention to their claim that the Management have not supplied the union with a dedicated office space of their own (or whatever this week’s burning issue is).

The union reps would also come around to each worker and give us things like "Know your rights" fridge magnets or "Salary review NOW" stickers, which would inevitably end up stuck to the inside of the lift doors, and leave a nasty residue and scratch marks after a passing Manager has tried to pick it off with the edge of his underpaid secretary’s staple extractor.

That’s another thing I’m told (but have zero concrete evidence of), that salaries are much lower for women even when doing the exact same job as a man in Spain. I presume it must be because of the tired old excuse that women can get pregnant at any time, leaving the company instantly on the verge of certain doom and impending bankruptcy.

I think that’s been fairly well ironed out in the UK for the most part (as I say, I think) but if this is still going on in Spain (or anywhere in fact), then it’s pretty shameful if you ask me, and I reckon it’s about time even the childless, non-family orientated workers of the nation quietly admitted that it’s no bad thing that woman should be treated absolutely equally and that pregnant women are no longer dropped like a hot potato when their boss hears their "happy" news. (Of course, I’d like to see more use of sabbaticals and career breaks for men too, but that’s going wildly off topic..!)

Finally, you can’t look at the differences between Spanish offices and UK ones (in the examples I’ve given) without mentioning the one big similarity. Office Gossip! I’m pleased to say that this is just as rife in Spain as anywhere in my experience. Extra-marital affairs, secret pregnancies, new starters with falsified CV’s, along with the usual spread of mild bitching and backstabbing is all happy camping the world over it seems!

OK, back to work for me!

In today’s guest blogging post, Dave Hall, who can also be found blogging at pepino-bcn.blogspot.com, asks if there is life beyond Barcelona’s Parc Guell:

Everyone who comes to Barcelona should of course be sure to check out the many Gaudí­ designed buildings and parks that the city has to offer, with Parc Guell probably very high on their list, but how about all those other parks and gardens that don’t have the guaranteed draw that Gaudí­’s name brings? I decided to head away from the crowds today and take a closer look at a hidden gem of a garden that you might just recognise..!

El Laberinto de Horta is located on the mountain side of the city, set back just a little further than Parc Guell, and is a relatively small, but nonetheless stunning neo-classical park dating back to the 1700s. It used to be the home of Joan Antoni Desvalls who was the Marqués de Llúpia i d’Alfarrí s, but was acquired in 1971 by the local authorities and subsequently opened to the public. The centrepiece of the park is an immaculately manicured maze made up of cypress trees overlooked by a Romanesque style balustrade complete with classical statues and stone pergolas.

Further back, and up the grand steps behind the maze, is a large pond full of goldfish, which in turn, is backed onto by a further classical stairway and classical statues making yet more romantic photo-opportunities or just great places to explore.

Walking around, you’ll notice just how many discrete little canals and streams there are to move the water around and, I assume, to power by gravity the subtle but beautiful fountains that are dotted around. One of the best water features the park has to offer is an impressive waterfall drizzling down the natural old stones full of moss.

Perhaps the parks greatest asset though, is the fact that it escapes the worst of the tourist throngs. Quite how something so stunning could manage this I have no idea, but you can even go on a Sunday afternoon and be pretty much assured of a peaceful and crowd-free opportunity to stroll around, relax, take some pictures, or maybe just read a book and enjoy the heavenly surroundings. On weekdays, there is a small entrance fee of €2.05 (and yes, I did ask at the entrance why the 5 cents were so important, but the guy admitted it was a mystery to him too!) although on Sundays, you can get in for free.

The relative tranquillity of Horta could be on the verge of coming to an end, as the park was featured in one of the most memorable scenes from the recent film "Perfume” (hence why I said at the start that you might recognise it). The scenes where the girls are playing hide and seek in the maze were all filmed here, and definitely show the maze in a whole different light given the eerie and semi-dark atmosphere of the movie.

The pictures I took today can be seen on my new Flickr page and there is more information about the Perfume movie here.

Don’t forget to check out Dave’s blog at pepino-bcn.blogspot.com

In today’s guest blogging spot, Dave Hall writes in with another great taste of life in Barcelona Dave can also be found blogging at pepino-bcn.blogspot.com:

Has Barcelona been earmarked for a G8 summit? Are the Olympics back in town again? Or is it that the Queen is coming to make a white-glove fingertip dust inspection at any moment?

Well, maybe it’s none of these, but you could certainly be forgiven for thinking the mother of all events was on its way to Barcelona given the sheer scale of improvements and roadworks going on around the centre of the city (apparently concentrated on the Eixample districts). It seems that I can’t step outside my front door these days without being almost swallowed up into a monumental-sized cavern that’s suddenly appeared courtesy of the local authority planning department. For example, where I live is just 4 short blocks from La Rambla de Catalunya, but navigating a way through on the most direct street has become a real chore. And then when you get there, you’re faced with more of the same between La Diagonal and roughly until you get past Aragó.

We’re all used to those strange little holes appearing overnight, surrounded by a flashing light, a mini-barrier and accompanied by a little sign apologising for the mysterious spot of trouble, but the work going on around here lately is much more extensive. The bulk of it is in preparation for the AVE high speed train, which by the way, is actually causing more of a stir above ground than below, with countless residents in the buildings above complaining of cracks appearing in their walls (and this is just from the preparation work, the trains haven’t started running yet!) Many balconies have signs dangling from them imploring the authorities to send the path of the train around the city rather than directly under it, but it’s all way too late for that now – the first train is set to roll into Sants station by the end of the year.

The Metro system (which is already pretty neat, tidy and efficient for the most part it has to be said) is also having its fair share of facelift surgery. Of my two nearest Metro stations, Hospital Clinic has temporarily lost all its escalators, while Diagonal station is covered in signs with those "artists impressions” of great things yet to come, although closer inspection reveals that it’s nothing more than a shiny new walkway, but still, it’s nice to be "done up” once in a while!

A friend perfectly summed-up the whole situation to me recently as we were trying to make our way down the pavement. After having been forced to needlessly cross the road for what seemed like the 38th time, he literally stopped in the middle of the street and had a massive red-faced huff, complaining out loud that, "Toda Barcelona está rota!!!”.

I couldn’t help but agree.

Don’t forget to check out Dave’s blog at pepino-bcn.blogspot.com

Some of you may know that my flatmate has 24 carat gold "enchufes” and can always be relied on to get me into some pretty classy places that I’d normally never get to try, and that was the case again this weekend, as a friend of his that I met at a party a few months ago invited me to celebrate her birthday in this restaurant. At first I was a little reticent as, knowing this particular lady, the venue was never going to be within my budget, but the magic word to listen out for from a Spanish person is of course the verb "invitar”, which instantly helped me to relax as it automatically has the assumption built-in that the person doing the inviting is genuinely happy to pay.

The restaurant has a very exclusive air and the security is firm but very discreet, but the most important thing was the quality of the food. Each of the 6 courses comes with an individually selected and matched wine, so when the food arrives, each of you is brought a different bottle, and the waiter explains the reasons for its selection. Now, I’m no connoisseur, but I know what tastes good, and each wine was truly excellent and accompanied the food perfectly. There was even a white rioja at one point which went down particularly well!

For the dessert course my flatmate, being Cuban, homed-in on Recuerdos de Havana which included an amazing chocolate-coated ice-cream "cigar” which somehow had been infused with the taste of a genuine Havana cigar! It was truly unique and very highly recommended – and we all tried some of course. The second dessert course was the house speciality, a type of perfumed mousse which strangely came with a small pot containing pieces of card, the idea being that you eat a little of the mousse, and then waft the card with a complementing perfume under your nose. Very odd indeed, but incredibly effective! I caught a glimpse of the bill when it came and couldn’t help but let out a tiny gasp, but if you do ever get the opportunity to eat here, I thoroughly recommend it. And as if a bonus was needed, a little "free extra” for us was that, just across from our table, was the extremely easy-on-the-eye Spanish TV presenter Jesus Vásquez having dinner with his partner and friends. ¡Que aproveche!

Dave Hall lives and works in Barcelona.