27th July: The Final Countdown

Today is my last Saturday - and last full day - in Madrid, and I am currently sitting in my living room sheltering from the rain. It seems somehow fitting that my Spanish adventure should end in almost exactly the same way it began - sitting alone, hiding away from the miserable weather. This time there is an important difference, and that is that I’m not alone at all, not really. Everyone from work has gone away for the weekend; Alicia and Ali are with their au pair families; Marellia is spending time with her boyfriend; but that doesn’t mean I feel lonely. I’ve met so many incredible people this year that, even though I may be on my own at a particular moment, I can’t help but feel that there will always be people who will treat you with kindness and welcome you as their friend.

My experience at Gestamp has been a true testament to this, and I really can’t thank them enough. Working there has been an amazing stage in my life; though short, I feel like I’ve taken so much away from it. Not only have I had a taste of the kind of work that I hope will eventually become my full occupation, but I’ve learnt just how easy it can be to fit in with a new group of people, especially when they are so willing to accept you.

I’ve noticed that my tasks have been becoming more varied and challenging as the days and weeks have gone by, and my final task was translating a corporate Code of Conduct, which, due to its legal content, had to be handled with great precision. It’s only now that I’m reflecting back on things that I realise how much I’ve progressed since first arriving in Spain. I remember, as if in a dream, that very first day, struggling to communicate with my landlady on the phone and stuttering over a bit of small talk. Now I’m translating legal documents without a second of self-doubt.

This week, I also had to translate a press release on the rail accident in Santiago de Compostela, Galicia, which happened this Wednesday and is being called Europe’s worst train crash this century. I’d barely heard about it before I received a panicked message from my mum to check I was ok, which was very sweet but then again, also fairly unnecessary since I was neither anywhere near Galicia, nor had I been on any trains. Anyway, on a sensitive issue like this, I knew I had to get the tone exactly right - especially after the horrendous error made by Spain’s own Prime Minister by copying and pasting from another condolence message he’d addressed to China about the earthquake in Gansu on Monday. 

On Monday evening, I had to rush back to make a Skype call with my future housemates, but on Tuesday I decided it was time to start making the most of my last week here and went into town with José after work. We took the train to the Salamanca district, which is known as one of the wealthiest in Madrid, with one of the highest real estate prices in the city, and is also home to some of the most expensive and exclusive shops. Though we were able to admire these from a distance, we headed to Zara for some retail therapy which was slightly more in our price range.

After emerging from Zara surprisingly empty-handed, I decided to split off from José to do a bit of tourism, making my way to the Puerta de Europa (Gate of Europe) or Torres KIO (KIO Towers), an iconic twin of office buildings constructed from 1989 to 1996. Each building is 115m tall, and they are inclined at an angle of 15°, making them the first inclined skyscrapers in the world. On the top of each tower is a helipad.

It took me a good twenty minutes to reach the towers on the metro, and only to stand outside and observe them for a few minutes and take a couple of photos. I’d made a couple of failed attempts at getting a picture I was actually in, using the self-timer on my camera, before a passer-by took pity on me and offered to do it for me. I expect the sight of a female tourist struggling on her own did look pretty sad.

Thursday being my penultimate day at Gestamp, we had a mini despedida (leaving party). I arrived at my desk to find a mysterious foil-covered object, decorated with well-wishing Post-it messages - which turned out to be a gorgeous cheesecake baked by Paula. It was so incredibly sweet of her to go through all that effort, and all of us headed to the kitchen to share it right then, despite it being 8.30 in the morning. The little kitchen soon filled with people, and after I shared out the cake it was time to say a word of thanks. Since I’d let slip that I was a singer, everyone had been asking for a song, but as I didn’t think breaking out into song was appropriate in the workplace, a speech would have to do. I was probably already known as the crazy young English girl through turning up in short skirts (the only ones I own), going out clubbing with seven guys, not to mention that momentous occasion when I walked around all day with writing on my back, so I didn’t want to add another reason to add to that image.

My speech was short and sweet; as is probably obvious from this blog, I admit that I’m usually quite keen on getting myself heard, but making a speech in Spanish in front of all my work colleagues had me surprisingly nervous. I was anxious not to make any mistakes that might leave behind the memory of me being well-meaning but slightly dim. In the end, I thanked everyone for their kindness, for making me feel so welcome and for making my experience at Gestamp such an enjoyable one.

That day, those who could make it came to a farewell lunch at Wok, a nearby Chinese restaurant. I’d originally planned to organize a meal and drinks on the Friday, or even the Thursday, but since everyone was going away that weekend and most already had plans for the Thursday, we did a lunch instead. In reality, I did nothing towards the arrangement of this plan, since I considered that the Madrilenians would know how best to organize things - so it was really nice of everyone to spread the word and sort everything out amongst themselves.

After work, I needed to get a little something to give the team the next day, to thank them for everything they’d done for me. There is a Corte Inglés just outside the Gestamp office building, so it was easy enough to pop in and buy a card and chocolates before making my way back on the metro.

The next day, being a half-day, passed by in a blur, especially with the constant reminders from Fatima of how little time I had left. At 1 o’clock, I got paid and said goodbye to Juan, the manager, in what was probably the longest conversation I’d had with him throughout the duration of my time at Gestamp. Then, with the rest of the marketing team (minus Jaime and Elena, who had gone on holiday), I had my photo taken in one of the conference rooms, against the backdrop of Leading the Change (the corporate intranet run by the marketing department).

José had the picture printed and put it in one of the company picture frames for me to take home, a lovely souvenir from my time there. I decided I ought to present the card and chocolates then, before everyone started to leave. Fatima opened the card and, to my embarrassment, read it aloud (I hoped there weren’t any glaring mistakes). To my relief, everyone seemed thrilled with the message, and I later found Fatima had taken a photo of it and posted it on Facebook along with our group photo, accompanied by some lovely comments.

Soon, people began to leave, and I said goodbye to David, Paula and Fatima before making my way downstairs with Maria and José. Maria was going the opposite way, leaving just José and me to walk the short stretch to the metro before parting ways. He told me again that I was welcome to come and stay whenever I wanted, and we talked about a visit in October, which is when the city is apparently full of people and perfect for fiesta - unlike right now, when it’s holiday season. I told him I would love to come, and I hoped I could; I was really going to miss everyone.

Since I’d been paid in cash, I decided it would be safest to drop the money back at the house before going out for the afternoon. When I got back, Marellia was in so we sat and had lunch together before I left for the metro again. I’d decided to go and see a few more essential Madrid things while I still had the chance - the Plaza de Toros de las Ventas (Bullring), the inside of the Palacio Real (Royal Palace), and Casa de campo, which is a huge park just south of the city.

Since the website said it closed at 6, first I headed on the green line to the Las Ventas, which is regarded as the home of bullfighting in Spain and is arguably the country’s most famous bullring. It is situated in the Guindalera quarter of the Salamanca district and was opened in 1931, and (much as I wish this weren’t true) is still in operation today. Despite being against the sport, I felt it was something I ought to see whilst in Madrid, even if I was a bit reluctant to support the practice with my entry fee.

As it happened, on the day I visited there was to be a concert that evening, as I was told by the security guard on duty. In fact, we ended up having a lovely chat, derived from the fact that he couldn’t believe I was English due to my high standard of Spanish - my second confidence boost that day, after a promoter giving out flyers had refused to believe I didn’t live in Spain.

Anyway, although it was slightly annoying I’d come all that way and wouldn’t get to go inside, it was enough to see the beautiful exterior and, at any rate, maybe it was a sign that I wasn’t meant to support the bullring by paying for an entry ticket after all. I had my picture taken by some passers-by and walked the whole perimeter before making my way back to the metro.

My next stop was the Palacio, which I’d read offered free entry after 6pm. However, when I arrived and asked the woman on the information desk, it turned out that this offer was only valid from Monday to Thursday and, in the absence of a student card, I would have to pay eight euros to get in. She suggested going to the comisaría to get a proof of theft document, but since I’ve already tried this with no results, I decided to give it a miss. I’d gone to the police office just outside work, not long after my purse had been stolen, to enquire if it had been handed in, but had had such a bizarre experience I decided I wouldn’t try again. 

What had happened was this: the comisaría was located just inside the bus station, a fact that seemed slightly unusual to me, and therefore I spent a while wandering around trying to find it. Eventually, a guy approached me and asked what I was looking for. He told me I was standing right outside the station and that he himself was a policeman. He didn’t look much like a policeman but I could hardly say this to his face, so when he asked me to explain what had happened, I complied. He then said that I needed to go to the station at Chueca, where he would happily drive me. I have no idea whether this is the done thing here, but I didn’t feel like taking any chances so made my excuses and ran away.

Anyway, I decided that, without free entry or a student discount, the palace probably wouldn’t be worth the bother - especially as I’ve seen dozens of palaces worldwide and they are all basically the same. At any rate they take inspiration from other foreign courts, so seeing the palace of a particular country does not necessarily mean you are getting the opportunity to see some authentic native architecture and design.

For this reason, I went instead to the cathedral, Santa María la Real de La Almudena, which was just a couple of minutes’ walk down the road. Its construction began in 1879 as, since the transferal of the capital of spain from Toledo to Madrid in 1561, the city had been in need of a cathedral. It is was originally designed in a Gothic revival style and, due to the interruption caused by the Spanish Civil, was not completed until 1993. For this reason, it now has a Neo-Gothic interior which is refreshingly modern and includes chapels, statues and artwork from contemporary artists.

After visiting the cathedral, I returned to Ópera metro station and began the journey to Casa de Campo, a large urban park of more than 1,700 hectares, which was once a royal hunting estate. When I arrived at just after 6pm, the heat of the day was still almost unbearable, even in the shade of the tree-lined footpaths which went on for miles around. I hadn’t walked for much more than half an hour before I decided to make my way back; I might have stayed longer were it not for the heat and the worry of getting lost in the woods on my own. I decided that if I ever came back to live in Madrid, this would be the place I’d come to walk my dogs.

I spent the evening catching up and making plans with friends from back home, as well as cooking a mediterranean pasta (which I am quite proud of, considering it was basically for using up my extra ingredients), and watching The Breakfast Club on my lonesome. This morning was spent doing odd jobs like the horrific task of packing (or re-packing, as I’d already done a rough job when sending off my box). The good news is that whilst writing this blog, a plan has come in for this evening, which means my last night in Madrid won’t be spent in the house on my own after all.

21st July: Some Cultural Experiences

It’s Sunday: the end of another successful week at Gestamp and another enjoyable weekend.

On the whole, the week went according to what has fast become my usual routine here: up at 6.45, metro at 8, start work at 8.30, break 2 till 4, finish at 6. My work has consisted of translating more company documents from Spanish into English and correcting existing translated texts.

On Tuesday, we had a bit of variation in the form of a corporate lunch, which had been organized to celebrate the company’s recent successes. Almost the entire department turned out for it, making us around thirty people - just imagine my mortification when I was made to introduce myself to the entire table. 

We were going to the restaurant in our lunch break and therefore straight from work, meaning we all had to find transport there. I somehow ended up in the manager’s car, which felt more than a bit awkward since some people who had worked there for a lot longer than I had were having to take the metro. Nevertheless, it was a surreal and bizarrely exciting experience to be cruising up the motorway in the back seat of Juan’s 4x4 with Fatima, Jose and Matthieu (the French guy who never speaks).

The lunch itself was not the most vegetarian-friendly I’ve ever been to (being a set tapas menu for so many people, I guess this was inevitable) but it was nice to meet and talk to some more people from Gestamp, at any rate. The company generously fronted all the costs so it was more of a social occasion than anything else. Afterwards, most of us went on to a nearby cafe for coffee (also paid for by Gestamp) and it was gone half-past five when we broke off into small groups to make our separate ways home.

The rest of the week passed without event, so much so that by Thursday I was getting bored of the routine and decided to go into the city centre with José. We went by train (still a relatively novel experience for me here) to Recoletos, which is in the Chueca district, where José lives. There, he showed me more of the local sites, including the Biblioteca nacional (National Library) and the Palacio de Longoria (Palace of Longoria), which is commonly thought to be a Gaudian work, and is the only building of its style in Madrid. It was built in the 20th Century modernist style, but not by Gaudi; it was actually built by José Grasés Riera in 1902 as a residence for the banker Javiar González Longoria. It’s now owned by the Spanish writers’ and artists’ association but is worth seeing just from the outside - its art nouveau style and curved contours are stunning and unusual. 

The next day, Friday, we had the afternoon off, and Maria had invited me to go to the pool with her. She’s lucky enough to have free access to it, since it belongs to the residential block from where her mum runs her business. After going upstairs for lunch with Maria and her mum, who was lovely, the two of us made our way down to the sunny central courtyard, which consisted of tennis courts, a large swimming pool and a wide grass perimeter with wicker parasols. We spent the afternoon chatting and alternating between pool and poolside, before Maria’s two younger brothers arrived and we went to play with them in the pool.

When it was time to leave, Maria kindly walked me to the metro station, and when I got back to the house, Marellia, my housemate, was getting ready to leave. She’d invited me a few days earlier to go out with her and her friends, and said now that I was still more than welcome to come. The problem was that I had just returned from the pool and needed to finally get round to organizing how to transport my belongings home, as well as eat and completely get ready, before I could go out. We eventually decided that I would join them as soon as I could and send her a message when I was at the metro station.

Typically, I arrived at Sol metro station (which, horrifically, is officially called Vodafone Sol after its sponsor) only to discover I had no credit on my phone - which was ridiculous since I’d topped up five euros only the week before. The good thing is that the shops in Spain are open so late that I was able to dash into Orange and use the top-up machine; otherwise I would have been really stuck.

A few minutes later, Marellia was there, and she took me to meet her friends at a nearby bar I’d never have found on my own. What I hadn’t realised was that every single one of the ten-or-so people would be French, which was a little bit tricky since French happens to be one of the languages I don’t speak. The bizarre thing was that they all seemed more keen to speak English to me than Spanish, despite having been in Spain for however many months. At any rate, they seemed nice enough and made an effort to talk to me.

I consider myself quite an easy-going person, and I’m usually pretty good at reserving negative judgments until someone has proven they really deserve them, but there was one particular guy who just seemed to have nothing to say that wasn’t intensely irritating. He started out by saying that Birmingham was horrible (a fact I don’t deny, but something I feel only West Midlanders should be allowed to say), before going on to say that English villages are like death. He then proceeded to claim that he hated Paris and London, but loved how small and safe Madrid was (an interesting idea, since I haven’t met anyone here yet who hasn’t been mugged). I agree that Madrid is small for a capital (it has 4 million inhabitants, half that of London) and I think it’s a beautiful city, but I also think calling it a safe city is a bold claim. 

This wasn’t all. To name all the ignorant and obnoxious things he came up with during the night would take up pages, but I think all my readers will understand my outrage when he said that English people are impatient with foreign people trying to speak their language. This coming from a French guy! I didn’t have enough of a death wish to voice my witty retort in front of a circle of French people, so I told him I completely agreed in the hope he’d grasp the irony.

We went to several bars, including one really cool place selling cheap mojitos, and a club that was completely empty, before ending up at a shisha bar. I spent most of the night talking to Marellia, who is really lovely, and a guy called Toma with whom I had a surprising amount in common. At the end of the night, Marellia and I made our way back to the house together.

I hadn’t made any other plans for that weekend, since everyone from work had gone away. Apparently this is the done thing in Madrid; most people have beach houses or, if they don’t, they have friends or family to visit all over the country, since a lot of them don’t come from here. For this reason I had a quiet Saturday morning, catching up on odd jobs, doing my share of the cleaning and packing up my box of belongings to be sent off the following Monday. When Marellia woke up we had an extensive Internet search for horse trekking centers (she loves riding as well) but couldn’t find any decent ones that were accessible by public transport.

After lunch, I took to metro to Retiro Park alone, as Marellia wasn’t feeling well. At any rate I was glad to have a bit of time to myself, reading El diario de Ana Frank in the shady gardens of Retiro. At half-past five I walked down to the Prado museum, which is free from 6 until 8 Mondays to Saturdays, and from 5 to 7 on Sundays. By talking to the guard I found out that it would have been free for me at any time had I not had my student card stolen, at which point the guard launched into a speech about how unbelievable and heartless it was to steal from a pretty girl like me. I know, I know, tragic.

The queue to get free entry into the museum was one of the longest I’d ever seen, stretching around the corner and all the way down the length of the building on the adjacent road. It did move surprisingly quickly, however, which was a relief since I was rapidly beginning to melt in the suntrap I was standing in.

The Prado is one of the things you really should do whilst you’re in Madrid, and that’s why I was there really, to see what the fuss was about. I’m far from being an expert in art and I have to admit that I did feel like a bit of a philistine breezing my way past most of the paintings, which all looked quite similar to me. In all fairness, most of the other visitors were the same, only they were putting on their ‘serious art faces’ to feign interest. There is something about being in museums that changes a person’s entire demeanor; their facial features, even their walk, becomes contemplative as if to show that they are taking in the culture.

At any rate, at least I had the initiative to decide for myself whether I liked the paintings or not, unlike most of the rest of the tourists, who were quite clearly religiously keeping to the list of famous works indicated by the Masterpieces section on the museum plan. My problem is that I prefer more contemporary art - not the ultra-modern, splash-of-paint-on-a-page stuff, but impressionism, expressionism, surrealism, that sort of thing. The Prado Museum collection consists of works from 1100 to 1800, which is probably why, after going around the entire museum, I only found a few paintings that really grabbed my attention. My favourites were the Pinturas negras (Black Paintings) collection by Franscisco Goya, as well as some works by Flemish painters Bosch, Patinir and Brueghel.

I’ve since done a bit of research on these and have found out that Goya painted his Pinturas negras, a group of fourteen paintings, after he moved into a house called Quinta del Sordo (Deaf Man’s Villa) in 1819, at the age of 72, when he himself was almost completely deaf. The paintings were originally created as murals in the house and were transferred to canvas in 1874. It’s evident from these paintings that Goya had been deeply effected by the Napoleonic Wars and the chaos within the Spanish government, not to mention his own personal turmoil of surviving two near-fatal illnesses. The sense of fear and hysteria and Goya’s loss of faith in mankind makes these paintings incredibly striking. The fact that they weren’t intended for exhibition and were named by his friend makes them, to me, in hindsight, even more fascinating as they seem to be a stark expression of a part of the artist he had never wanted anyone else to see.

Other than these, two paintings by Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights and Table of the Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things, were also particularly striking. The former is a triptych dating between 1490 and 1510 and is widely interpreted as a warning against the perils of succumbing to temptation. The left panel shows God presenting Eve to Adam; the central panel shows animals and nude figures indulging in ‘earthly delights’ and the right portrays the torments of damnation. The painting is so intricate that I stood looking at it for ages, from all different angles, to make out all the tiny details. 

The Table of the Seven Deadly Sins caught my eye because I’ve been interested in this idea ever since reading Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus way back in sixth form (not to mention watching the film Seven). Prado has it placed in a mounted glass case parallel to the floor, so you can observe it from above and see all the different segments of the grid from the correct angle. It consists of four small circles, portraying ‘Death of the Sinner’, ‘Judgment’, ‘Hell’ and ‘Glory’ surrounding a larger circle depicting the sins in scenes from everyday life. Like the other painting of his, there’s something quite haunting in this that I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s the fact that people back then were so terrified of following the rules governed by religion; or maybe it’s just because I probably commit most of the sins on a daily basis. I remember talking to Giorgos once about which sin we would be, before we decided we’d probably be all of them for one reason or another.

The last two paintings I’ll mention are Landscape with Charon Crossing the Styx by Patinir and The Triumph of Death by Brueghel, which, like the others, drew my attention with their slightly sinister qualities. The first, because it takes its subject matter from Virgil’s Aeneid and Dante’s Inferno, showing Charon, who takes souls of the dead to Hades, transporting a human soul across the River Styx. 

The Triumph of Death which depicts a horrific battle scene between mankind and an army of skeletons, stands out for obvious reasons. It shows people across all spheres of society being snatched by death - portraying the way in which all of life’s petty preoccupations, such as money and status, are made irrelevant in the face of death. I do admit that this is pretty macabre and apologise for my morbid tastes.

By the time I made my way back through Retiro to the metro, dusk was falling and the park was buzzing with life. The evening sun cast warm shadows on the wide paths along lake, where street entertainers were performing to lively crowds of couples and young families. It felt strange to be alone amongst so many people, almost as if I were an invisible observer, a ghost watching life from the outside. I contemplated how wonderful it would be to be able to capture the intoxicating atmosphere of the Madrilenian evening and store it in a box to be brought out in moments of loneliness or sadness. Maybe I had already been lost in my own company for too long.

I had a much-needed rest that night and woke up fresh for the next day. Marellia and I had put our alarms on early to wash our hair before taking a day trip to Segovia, a city in the region of Castille and León, just north of Madrid. We had aimed to catch the 11.15 bus, according to the online timetable, but arrived at 11 only to find the next one wasn’t for another hour.

Not to be discouraged, we bought our tickets and waited in the station for our bus to arrive. At 1.15 we finally got off the bus in Segovia to find ourselves in a surprisingly bearable heat (nothing like the storms predicted by the online weather forecast). After paying a quick visit to the Tourist Information counter in the bus station, we followed our maps to the Aqueduct of Segovia, the city’s most famous monument.

The aqueduct, which was constructed between the 1st and 2nd century, is the most important Roman civil engineering work in Spain. It is 818m long and its highest point is 29m, and it consists of approximately 25,000 granite blocks held together without the use of any mortar.

When we had walked up the quaint main street and seen the aqueduct, we ascended the stone steps to the top and stopped for some lunch. We then followed our map to find the other notable sites in the city, since Segovia, declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1985, has many other sites as well as the aqueduct. 

Segovia Cathedral is the last Gothic cathedral built in Spain and is considered the masterpiece of Basque-Castillian Gothic. As such, we didn’t mind paying the three euros to get inside, especially since the interior was quite unusual in style. Our next visit was to the Alcázar de Segovia, a royal palace located on the cliff top. This was less worth the four euros fifty I had to pay to enter, not having my student card, as it was a short visit and basically consisted of a few almost-empty rooms and a couple of small armory exhibitions, which is far from being one of my interests. From the outside, though, it looks like a Disney fairytale castle, which was well worth the walk to see.

As we were leaving the castle it began to pour with rain, but since it was only 3.30 we didn’t have much choice but to go on with our tour. Almost as abruptly as it had begun, the rain soon stopped and we were able to see the other main sites on the map, including the Muralla (city walls), which had been constructed around the perimeter of the city at the beginning of the Middle Ages and were rebuilt in the 11th century.

By this stage the weather had become close and humid, so we stopped for a welcome Smöoy break on the main street, directly in front of the aqueduct. Whilst we were sitting out on the terrace, we noticed signs of a formidable storm threatening on the horizon - and sure enough, within minutes the sky was flashing with thick forks of bright lightning, and the air was being pierced with heavy claps of thunder.

Since there was no sign of rain yet, and we had just over an hour before we needed to think about making our way to the bus station, we decided to meander the streets looking for postcards and souvenirs for Marellia. Both of us bought a Turkish eye bracelet, since Marellia had been given one that had given her unbelievable luck, but had since broken. The man gave us an extra one for free, which both of us we too polite to accept; it was eventually decided that since Marellia had already got one for her mum, I would take this one and give it to mine.

It wasn’t long before the rain started up again, and this time it really was the thunderstorm Google had predicted. We began to head towards the station dashing between the awnings of shops, meeting crowds of people on the way with the same idea. Finally we took refuge in a cafe, where we warmed ourselves with hot drinks and waited for the worst to pass. By the time we emerged half an hour later, the rain had relented and we arrived at the bus station relatively dry. We were just grateful that we’d only had an hour of storms and not the day of awful weather we’d been expecting. 

By the time we got back to the house, I was exhausted but glad I’d made the most out of the weekend by seeing some more of the culture Madrid and its surroundings has to offer. I only have one week left here and, as the Spanish say, hay que aprovechar. 

13th July: A Quiet Week and a Crazy Weekend

I spent most of the rest of that week attempting to get over the horrendous cold Vicky had given me as a parting gift. Luckily, Marellia happened to have a whole stash of medication and was kind enough to let me use it all, so by Friday I was almost better.

On Friday afternoon, we finished early as usual and I decided to make the most of the sunshine by taking a trip to the park. I reasoned that it was fairly unlikely I would see my stalker again, and at any rate, he seemed to have finally got the hint and had stopped calling me since I picked up the phone and told him he had to leave me alone because he was freaking me out. I did however get a phone call from someone I’d apparently given my number to on Saturday, which was a little awkward. The good thing is, claiming you’re only in Madrid for a few more days sounds like a pretty legitimate excuse.

Except for a few passers-by, I had practically the entire park to myself - probably because I was the only person mental enough to be sitting out in the afternoon heat. Admittedly, it was absolutely scorching and I could only manage just over an hour before making my way back to the comfort of my air conditioned house. Then I had the rest of the late afternoon to myself to catch up on some emails, grab a bite to eat and get ready to go out.

That evening I was going to dinner with some colleagues to celebrate José’s birthday. This was why a snack had been essential, since we were doing the very Spanish thing and not even meeting until 10.15. Somehow, I did what I always seem to end up doing and left the getting-ready to the last minute, meaning I didn’t have time to paint my nails before leaving the house (and coral nails are an essential finishing touch to said outfit, a black and coral Aztec-style dress). For some reason it seemed perfectly logical to paint them on the metro - and it might have been fine had the nail varnish in question not turned out to be gloopy beyond belief. In the end I think I would have been better not painting them at all, since all I really ended up with was a gloopy mess and a lot of funny looks.

On the plus side, I arrived at Gran Vía five minutes early, allowing me to regain composure before José came to meet me, since I had no idea where the restaurant was. It was then that I found out that the only other two girls who were meant to be coming had cancelled, leaving me in the company of seven guys. It’s just lucky I’m not shy about being one of the lads.

The unfortunate thing is the inevitable problem that, being the only girl in a group of so many guys, you’re inevitably going to end up being the victim of banter. At one point, one of them said they couldn’t understand me when I spoke English, and that actually, I must have come here to improve it. Another, after hearing about the guys I’d met in various locations throughout the world, said we should host some sort of casting programme in my house to audition who was going to be my next boyfriend. On the plus side, I definitely managed to impress with my drinking skills, which, since they were all twenty-seven-year-old guys, I consider quite an achievement.

The meal was expensive but really good, as were the Mojitos and Tequila Sunrise. Afterwards, we went onto a couple of bars before ending up at a club called Ocho y media, which cost sixteen euros to get in. I hadn’t anticipated the night being nearly as expensive as this and was considering going home when David offered to pay my entry for me. Not wanting to disappoint José or spoil things by going home early, I took him up on the offer and promised to pay him back on Monday.

At the end of the night, which was around 5.30am, I had the annoying problem that the metro, which I didn’t want to catch alone anyway, didn’t even start for another half-hour - and a taxi on my own from their would be extortionate. José kindly offered for us to stay over at his flat, which was just around the corner - which seemed like the easiest solution. What I hadn’t considered was the fact that, the next morning, when I had to get back to meet Alicia and Ali, I would then have to do what looked like the most epic Walk of Shame ever. Not only did I have to go on the metro dressed in my outfit from the night before, but to get to the station on Gran Vía, I had to go through what are literally the busiest streets in the whole of Spain. This was not a good moment.

After making it home and jumping in the shower, I had a text from Alicia to say they’d arrived at Urgel, so went to meet them there. The two weeks we’d been apart felt like months, and I was so glad to see them. This would probably be our last reunion in Spain before we met up in the UK in October.

They were amazed by my house, which is quite a step up from my little flat in Murcia. When I’d grabbed a bit of breakfast and we’d made a bit of a plan for the day, we headed back to the station and got the metro to Gran Vía. Once there, we stocked up on lunch snacks from the olive counter at El Corte Inglés as well as making a stop at one of the many Starbucks and the gluten-free bakery.

By the time we’d done all that it was the middle of the afternoon, so we decided to get started on the walking tour we’d set ourselves. Walking around Madrid in the afternoon heat was exhausting, but we somehow managed to see the Palacio Real, the Catedral de Santa María la Real de la Almudena, the Teatro Real, the Templo de Debod and the Plazas Mayor and España. After all that site-seeing we decided we’d done a respectable amount of culture for one day (enough to make sure Lina wouldn’t be disgusted at us, at any rate), so headed back to Gran Vía for a bit of retail therapy.

A couple of hours later we were ready for something to eat, so took the metro to La Latina, the Madrilenian district famous for its bars and restaurants. Considering this fact, it was surprisingly difficult to find somewhere to eat (although admittedly it probably didn’t help that Ali is celiac and I’m vegetarian). Eventually we came across a little square that seemed to be dominated by eco and vegetarian restaurants - perfect. We ended up at a vegetarian place called Estragon, which I had just happened to find a 25% Off voucher for in my map that day. The whole thing had fit into place beautifully - and, to top it off, they had Quorn! Well, some soya meat equivalent anyway, which is good enough for me.

After dinner we stopped off at a chinos to buy mixers for that night, before taking the metro back to the house. By 11.30 we were ready to go out. We decided that, since Madrid was so extortionately expensive, we would drink the sparkling vodka and Malibu (courtesy of Vicky and Chloe) at my place and go straight to the club from there.

Our plan would have worked perfectly had it not been for the fact that, by the time we actually got to the metro station at around 2.30, we’d missed the last train. There was no other option but to take a taxi, since Teatro Kapital, the club we were going to, was in Atocha, about fifteen minutes’ drive away. It was worth the effort, though; Kapital is the biggest club in Madrid and claims to be one of the most emblematic in Europe. It’s a converted theatre with seven floors, with anything from a cocktail bar to a karaoke bar to a Latin club to a dance club. Entry was a ridiculous 20 euros, but it seemed like something you have to do before leaving Madrid.

We tried out all the floors but the best was the ground floor, playing dance music, which was completely packed and included, every so often, intense blasts of dry ice, which felt like heaven. It was only a shame we’d been too worried about getting our cameras stolen to take them with us, but the most important thing was that we’d been, and we’d had an amazing time.

Today we woke up at around midday and headed to La Latina for El Rastro, Madrid’s world-renowned flea market. It dates back to medieval times, and from 11 to 3 every Sunday, takes over the entire La Latina area. Stalls sell first and second hand clothes, jewellery, souvenirs, antiques and knick-knacks, but the most important part is the atmosphere, which is alive with the bustle of hundreds of tourists and madrileños. 

After the market we stopped at a cafe for a drinks before making our way back to the house. We spent the rest of the afternoon lying on a blanket in the sunny courtyard, and before we knew it, it was time for them to go, and the end of another perfect weekend in Madrid.

9th July: Baby Cousin Comes to Visit

My cousin Vicky and her friend Chloe arrived that evening. Vicky and I had just found out we weren’t going to see each other for another two months so we’d taken matters into our own hands. Just a couple of days later, she and Chloe had booked their tickets for that same weekend and were coming out until Tuesday for a spontaneous few days in the sun.

Their flight arrived at 8.30, so when it was approaching 9.30 and I still hadn’t heard from them, I began to really worry. It turned out Vicky hadn’t written my Spanish number down so I had to ring to check they were alive. They pulled up in the taxi ten minutes later. It was really strange and really exciting to have my cousin here in Spain after six months of not seeing her. When we saw each other we ran to meet each other, and there was so much to catch up on all the words came out at once. 

As if it wasn’t amazing enough to have my little cousin here, she and Chloe had brought me a gorgeous bottle of sparkly pink vodka (she knows me well) and Malibu and Smirnoff for our nights out. After we’d caught up on all the most exciting news, I showed them the house and told them to make themselves at home.

By the time the girls had got showered and ready, it was 10.30 when we finally left the house. Maria from work had texted me to say she was going out with all her friends from university, inviting us to come too, so we met her at Sol metro station. We were almost an hour later than we’d originally said, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. 

One of her friends, Japi (pronounced, for those who don’t know, as “Happy” which is beyond adorable), was waiting with her, and after the obligatory introductions we made our way to the park for the botellón. I’d forgotten to warn Vicky and Chloe about the whole “two kisses” thing, so they were taken a little by surprise - something not helped by the fact Japi didn’t seem to speak much English. Nevertheless, knowing how friendly and bubbly Vicky and Chloe were, and that other people would know English, I was sure they wouldn’t have any problem getting chatting to people.

It was only when we got to the park that Maria announced that all her friends were guys. We then had to go through the whole rigmarole of kissing about fifteen guys on each cheek, which is where you begin to think that this particular form of etiquette can get a little inconvenient. After the initial awkwardness, however, we soon got talking to people - and, as predicted, Vicky and Chloe found some people eager to try out their English.

Incidentally, I should perhaps mention the cultural aspect of this botellón, as it was in the park where the famous Templo de Debod (Temple of Debod) is situated.  The temple was built in Egypt in 200BC and donated to Spain in 1960 following the construction of the Great Dam of Aswan and the threat this posed to several archeological sites. So, we were actually doing some cultural site-seeing as well as drinking in the park.

At some time in the early hours of the morning we decided to move on to some clubs - at which point the three of us had to trust the others entirely to find a good place. We went into one and straight back out again, before finding a club where you got entry, drink and shot for eight Euros, which is really good for Madrid. We had an amazing night and were some of the last to leave.

The next day we didn’t get up until nearly midday, when we crawled to the shop to grab ingredients for brunch and dinner. It was after 1.30 when we got on the metro and made our way to Plaza Mayor. There, we found a Llaollao (Smöoy’s competitor), which Vicky and Chloe were amazed at, so we stopped for a frozen yoghurt.

We then had a browse around the shops in the area, including a cute little jewellery shop selling handmade accessories from Gran Canaria. The assistant, although she didn’t speak much English, was really chatty to me and, in the end, gave us all free flower hair accessories and little pots of ice cream. Because the others bought bracelets, they got a free broach too, which they gave to me.

After our little wander, we crossed the square to the Tourist Information Centre, where we got maps and advice on how to spend the weekend. As it was now mid-afternoon, we decided just to have a bit of a look around rather than doing anything major, since the huge Gay Pride parade started at 6.

When we were left the Tourist Information, we spotted some Segways - and suddenly, all plans were dropped to go on a Segway quest. We went back into Tourist Information to ask, but even with it marked on the map we couldn’t seem to find the Segway rental centre - probably because, when it comes to reading maps, I am practically illiterate. On the plus side, on our search we did come across the Palacio Real and the Catedral de Santa María la Real de la Almudena, which were beautiful.

After we’d stopped and asked several thousand clueless/foreign people for directions, we finally found the rental place, only to discover that it only offered official Segway tours, which had to be pre-booked and cost 40 Euros for an hour. By this time we needed to be making our way to Atocha for the Gay Pride Parade.

It was still blisteringly hot, and when we’d stopped for snacks at McDonald’s we found ourselves a shady spot on the grass to wait for the parade to start. At just after 6, everyone started to move so we changed our spot to nearer the road. Typically (classic Spain), we were waiting for over an hour before the parade actually kicked off. On the plus side, during the wait there had been some of the most entertaining people-watching I’ve ever experienced.

It was as if, for this one festival, all judgment had been cast away and everyone could just express themselves - whether that be men in drag, women with shaved heads, fairy wings, or the tiniest man-shorts you’ve ever seen - and it all felt so refreshing and carefree. By the time the parade actually began, the streets were so packed we could barely move, and the atmosphere was electric. When the parade began, the police had to drive through with a barrier rope to push us all back so the parade could actually get through.

When the first group of dancers and floats came down the road, the crowd went mental. I’d never known an atmosphere like it, not even at the parades in Murcia. Suddenly, the biggest flag I’d ever seen was being passed over our heads along the length of the parade - the Gay Pride flag, which we all had to grab and pass on. At one point I was wondering when it was ever going to end and seriously contemplating making an escape. I have the occasional odd moment with enclosed spaces and lots of people, and this didn’t seem a particularly opportune moment to have a panic attack.

Anyway, we watched the parade for around an hour before deciding we’d better head back if we wanted to make it out to the celebrations in Chueca that evening. We got ready, cooked and ate at break-neck speed and managed to get to Plaza Callao by just before 11, drinks in hand. The night unfolded in a similar blur; we met so many people - gay, bisexual, lesbian, straight, it didn’t matter - danced with them, had photos with them, shared drinks with them - and it was one of the best nights of our lives.

Vicky and Chloe were in their element - despite the fact that, halfway through the night, we realised Vicky had been saying “salud”  to everyone she’d bumped into, thinking it meant “sorry”. If anything, I think people either thought she was just a bit special or a little bit adorable. At any rate, we’d soon made our way around most of the groups in the packed square. If I’d thought the atmosphere at the parade had been incredible, this was something else. It was still unbelievably hot even into the early hours of the morning, and all anyone cared about was the music and having fun.

The only downside to the whole thing was the discovery halfway through the night that my purse had been stolen straight out of my bag. We tried to look for it but it was no use - I was sure it had been taken, and even in the unlikely event that it had just fallen out, I’d never find it amongst all these people. It had had nearly forty Euros in, as well as my driving license, English SIM card and student card; I was devastated. After realising I wasn’t going to get it back, I had two choices: I could either give up and go home, or I could try and forget it and not let it spoil what had otherwise been an amazing night. I thought about what would make me happier, and just like that, I put it to the back of my mind and went back to the party.

The next day I woke up to the bitter realisation of everything I’d lost the night before, but I knew I needed to pick myself up and make the most of the weekend - after all, it could have been worse. So, that afternoon we caught the metro to the centre and bought tickets for the two city tour buses. In all honesty it wasn’t the most interesting tour we’d ever been on - not helped by the fact that Chloe had a vomit-scare halfway through - but we had a laugh anyway just looking at the sites, chatting and playing games.

That evening was the closing night of Gay Pride, including a showing of The Rocky Horror Show in Plaza de la Reina. Rocky Horror is probably one of the best excuses to dress up like an idiot that there is, so we decided to go all out. We bought suspenders and tiny hot pants with the word ‘Madrid’ in block capitals on the back which we paired with crop tops and heels. Then, to finish the look, we wrote ‘I’m sexy and I know it’ in Sharpie on our arms, and ‘The Rocky Horror Show’ on our backs.

The looks we got on the way to the square were a picture. Down the packed streets, in the metro: I’m pretty sure they’d never seen such a disgraceful group of young women. We’d hoped that as we got closer to the square where the show was being put on, we’d see more people dressed up and be able to blend in more; no such luck. When we were a street away, we decided to pop into one of the bars for a drink and a bite to eat.

As we approached Plaza de la Reina, we were struck with a sudden pang of awful realisation; no one else was dressed up. So, apparently dressing up for The Rocky Horror Show is not a thing in Spain (something that would have been useful to know beforehand, really). We now had two choices: go back to the house as fast as we could and try to forget this had ever happened, or carry on as though we looked completely normal. We decided, even though it was probably the most embarrassing moment of our lives, that since everyone had already seen us looking this ridiculous, we might as well get to actually see the show.

We found a spot amongst the crowd where we could sit as discreetly as possible and managed to go fairly unnoticed throughout the show - apart from Vicky, who unfortunately caught the eye of a butch lesbian who then wouldn’t leave her alone. The lesbian didn’t seem to understand that we had just dressed up for fun, and kept demanding what Vicky’s ‘price’ was. Mortified, Vicky tried to explain, but there just seemed to be too much of a language barrier this time - and I was too far away and laughing too much to be of any use.

The show itself was good fun too; despite our apparent obsession with it, none of us had actually seen it before but we knew a lot of the songs. And the rest of the audience, although they clearly hadn’t got the memo about dressing up, knew the musical well enough to join in with the appropriate choruses of ‘puta’ and ‘gilipollas’. Apart from that, the songs were in (heavily accented) English and only the narration in Spanish, which obviously worked out better for me than the other two, but they enjoyed it anyway.

When the show was cut short due to the official closing of Gay Pride, there was outrage in the crowd, but the organiser explained that there was nothing to be done. With no further events on that evening, we made our way back to the house where, after scrubbing off the evidence of our epic sartorial slip, I admitted defeat and went to bed.

On Monday, after spending the whole night fluctuating between searing heat and freezing cold, I woke up with one of the most horrendous colds I’d had in a long time. Since I’m one of those people who has to be practically on their death beds to back out on any commitment, I dragged myself to the metro regardless and had the longest and most painful day at work possible. This wasn’t helped by the fact that, at some point in the afternoon, Jaime, the guy who is technically my superior in the department, walked behind me and asked casually what on earth I had on my back. I was mortified. Luckily, I managed to gloss over it quite well, by saying vaguely that we’d dressed up for Gay Pride - but that didn’t stop me feeling absolutely ridiculous for going around the office all day having traces of The Rocky Horror Show written all over my back.

That evening was the girls’ last one in Madrid, so regardless of how awful I felt, I wanted to take them somewhere nice to eat. We decided on the paella restaurant José had recommended to me, which was expensive but worth the money. For the good of everyone, I feel it’s best to leave out the details of what happened during the rest of that night and just say that it was a little bit mental.

On Tuesday, Vicky and Chloe had to get to the airport in the afternoon so we had to say our goodbyes in the morning before I went to work. When I got back that evening, I found the place immaculate, and a little note waiting for me on the kitchen table. They’d written to tell me again how grateful they were and that they’d had the best weekends of their lives. It had been pretty amazing for me too.

5th July: A New Beginning in Madrid

The bus journey on Saturday somehow seemed to last both hours and no time at all. Having a relaxed driver did have its disadvantages, since the overzealous one from last time would undoubtedly have banned the irritatingly loud music the burly black guy opposite was playing from his phone. On the plus side, after he’d put on some typically masculine classics from Shania Twain, Enya and Whitney Houston, guessing what on earth he would put on next did provide some entertainment. 

Then, all of a sudden, six hours had gone by and we were pulling into Madrid’s Estación Sur. Ali, who was sitting behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I was feeling nervous. If I wasn’t before, I was by the time we’d finished a conversation accidentally completely freaking each other out. I realised I felt slightly sick and wasn’t so keen on getting off the bus after all.

Unfortunately there was nothing for it, and within ten minutes we’d collected our luggage and were ready to go our separate ways. Alicia and Ali were being met by the families for whom they were au pairing, and they were already there waiting. It had been such a comfort to travel with them but now, watching them leave together, I suddenly felt very alone.

Lugging two suitcases, a bag of bedsheets and a huge beach bag up and down four escalators to get to the metro didn’t help matters. Then, I got to the ticket machines only to find there seemed to be no way of buying the month ticket I needed. The security guard confirmed this, so I decided the best option was to buy a ten-journey card. I was so flustered by this stage that I got completely stuck in the metro barrier (yet again). The security guard gave me a disapproving frown and told me to come around again, where she could help me through with my ridiculous amount of possessions. 

Then, as if I hadn’t made enough of a prat of myself already, it wasn’t until I was on the other side of the barrier that I realised I had absolutely no idea where I was going. Luckily, by this stage the security guard was either warming to me or was just starting to feel a bit sorry for me for being so pathetic, because she smiled and patiently explained the whole route.

Unfortunately I had to make a change in the middle, which meant yet more stairs - and this time, there were few escalators in sight. For the second time that day, people went out of their way to help me - first, a woman who took my huge case up the escalator, then, when she had to go a different way, a guy who carried it down to the platform.

It just so happened that the guy, whose name was Soufiane, was taking the same metro and getting off at the same stop as I was. He offered to carry my case the whole way and we got chatting. He was a foreigner like me - except he was from Morocco and had lived in Spain for years. I was lucky that he turned out to be a really nice guy; he had to be, to put up with carrying my monstrous case up and down so many flights of stairs. When we finally got to the exit of our final station, he took my name and number and told me I had a friend in Madrid whenever I wanted.

I didn’t have to wait for long before Patricia, my landlady’s daughter, turned up at the station and walked me to the house. She seemed really lovely too; she insisted on taking my case and was amazed that Spanish wasn’t my first foreign language. We’d reached the house in five minutes, where her mother Jaqueline was waiting.

We unlocked the metal gate, which was more like a door as it was enclosed by an exterior wall, and walked through a neat little paved courtyard to the front door of the house. Jaqueline rang the bell and, after ascertaining that there was no one in, we went straight in. A brief tour later, the rent paid and my case safely upstairs in my bedroom, I was left alone again.

The house was just as impressive and modern as it had seemed in the pictures; the front door opened into a spacious kitchen-dining-living area, with doors leading to two bedrooms and two bathrooms. On the right-hand side was a steel and wooden staircase leading to three other bedrooms, one of which was to be mine. Unexpectedly, as luck would have it, I’d ended up with the only double bedroom in the house.

I passed what was left of the afternoon starting to get some things organised before heading out to the supermarket just at the end of the road. It was no Mercadona, but it was pretty good value for money and conveniently close-by. I returned laden with shopping bags and made myself a paella and finally sat down to rest. It was actually quite nice to have the whole place to myself. I lay on the big corner sofa and was so lost in my TV programmes that I was taken completely by surprise when, just before midnight, I heard a key turn in the front door.

The landlady had told me that my male housemate was English, so I started conversation with a friendly, “Oh, you must be the English guy!” Unfortunately, he was actually Belgian. He had a friend over too, but both of them were going back to Belgium in a few days. It wasn’t much of a disappointment to be honest; he was a bit weird and not very friendly. That night he was going on a date and leaving his poor friend, who had come especially to visit him, in the house with nothing to do. This wasn’t the only time, either; over the following few days I saw more of the friend than I did of my housemate.

I was just settling down to an episode of Glee in bed when my bedroom door was flung open and I was confronted by the vision of a confused and slightly alarmed-looking Chinese girl. After the most profuse, frightened and prolonged apology I think I’ve ever received, she retreated shyly out of the room. I came to the door and said, “Oh, are you my Japanese housemate?” in Spanish, then, when she looked bemused, tried again in English. She told me that no, she was Chinese, which made me look a massive racist for assuming she was Japanese, so I tried to make her understand that this was what the landlady had told me; clearly Jaqueline didn’t have much to do with her tenants.

The next day I met another Chinese girl and was left feeling more confused than ever. Her Spanish was a little better than the other girl’s and the Belgian guys’, but I still couldn’t seem to get a straight answer to the question “When are you leaving?” I thought she’d understood properly when she said September, but then both she and her friend left and took all her things with her that afternoon. I guess that was that.

I hadn’t got up until late that morning so it was nearly lunchtime when I ventured out to explore and to get some bread. In my wanderings I discovered that (miracle of miracles) the local supermarket was open on Sunday mornings, and that there was a beautiful park along the river just down the road, with stunning bridges, landscaping and views of the whole city.

On my way back to the house I met a cricketer running down from the pitch to retrieve a ball. Before I knew it we were going through the whole rigmarole of introductions and kisses on cheeks, and he was asking me for my phone number. I don’t usually have a problem getting out of these sorts of situations, but this was in broad daylight and without the aid of alcohol, so I couldn’t think of anything for it but to say yes. I couldn’t even give a fake number because I couldn’t be certain I knew the correct format of a Spanish one. I paid for this mistake when he started texting and calling me several times a day, without receiving any kind of reply from me - to the extent that all the guys on the office had to be on alert to answer the next call to get him to leave me alone.

That day, once I’d managed to make my escape, I went back to the house and passed the rest of the afternoon unpacking and catching up with other things I’d long needed to do. That evening I met up with Lauren, a girl from my old school, who, by some amazing coincidence, was on her Year Abroad in Madrid. When she’d seen my status the day before she’d messaged me and we’d decided to meet and catch up on the past three years.

I was a bit nervous going into town, having already heard several stories of people getting mugged - and I’d only been there for twenty-four hours. However, everything went perfectly; I had no problem catching the right metro and even arrived early.

It was really nice catching up after so long, and we stayed out until way after I’d anticipated, so that I had to respond to anxious texts from Alicia and Ali wondering why I hadn’t posted my return on the Facebook thread yet. In all honesty I was a bit concerned when I nearly got on the wrong metro line and I realised how infrequent the metros had become, but I got back without any problems.

The next morning I had to start work at 10am, so I left just after 9 to allow plenty of time. The idea of starting work at an international firm, not being a native speaker of the language, was fairly terrifying, and I was so distracted whilst getting ready I accidentally poured orange juice into my coffee. 

Despite the coffee fiasco, I managed to leave on time and I had no problem arriving at the correct metro station; the problem was getting form the station to the building itself. After walking the length of the road, I went right back up to the top and suddenly saw my offices; I have no idea how I’d missed the huge metal number on the first building on the road.

At any rate, I succeeded in entering the building and obtaining my temporary employee card. Then I had to go up to the sixth floor to my department, which meant an unavoidable awkward lift scenario. Lifts are inevitably not the places most inductive to comfortable conversation, but my friends can confirm that I am particularly awful in lifts, because I somehow always underestimate the amount of space and back some poor helpless individual into a corner - which is quite funny when you’re friends, but in a business atmosphere it’s just plain weird.

Lift predicament successfully over with, I went into the office and was met by Victor, who I’d been emailing and speaking with on the phone since the first girl I’d been talking to, Clara, had gone on holiday the week before. He was a lot younger than I’d expected (especially with a name like Victor), and when he introduced me to the Marketing Team, most of whom were in their twenties too. Everyone was really welcoming right from the outset, and it didn’t take me long to settle in.

My first day was spent editing a manual for their company social network, which had been translated from Spanish into English. When 2 o’clock came and it was time for our two-hour break, my colleagues invited me to eat outside with them on the nearby green. If I’d been worried about making friends, I needn’t have been. Everyone was doing everything they could to make me feel welcome. That evening, after work, Maria was going to Principe Pío to go to the first day of sales, and invited me to come with her. 

The next day I continued with the sixty-page manual and, by the time I’d done a supermarket shop after work, had had another long day. I got back to the house to find one housemate gone and the other returned from travelling. Her name was Marellia and she was from France; now the Chinesa girls and the Belgian guys had gone, it would just be the two of us.

The next day, I finally finished the manual and started some other tasks - sometimes correcting other translations, sometimes writing my own - for company presentations, webpages, press releases, etc. Even though the days were long (8.30 to 6.30), it was rewarding to be doing something I was good at and that, hopefully, was going to be useful to the company. 

Thursday was the beginning of the Orgullo Gay (Gay Pride) festival in Madrid, so José, Maria, Elena and I went to a couple of the stages after work. Stages had been set up in various squares all over the city, especially in the Chueca area, which is described by Lonely Planet as “extravagantly gay, lively, young, and always inclusive regardless of your sexual orientation”. I have to say, this is absolutely true, and we had so much fun dancing to the Spanish music in the crowded squares. At one point, a blonde woman I recognised from an awful TV advert came on stage and sang “Dame dame dame” (that is, “Gimme Gimme Gimme” in Spanish).

Work finishes early on Fridays, so that afternoon I decided to make the most of the spare time and take my first trip to Gran Vía. I spent all afternoon scouring the shops for work-appropriate outfits but, as is always the way when you actually need something, only came away with one thing.

And just like that, my first week in Madrid was over. It still felt somewhat surreal to think that I’d become this person, living in Madrid, with Spanish friends, working as a translator. It sometimes feels like I’m watching myself from afar because it seems somehow unbelievable to think the person I am now, compared to the lost and insecure teenager I was, lifetimes ago. Going to university and doing a Year Abroad are the best things I’ve ever done - and now, living in Madrid, I was beginning what was set to be another short, but incredible, phase in my life.