...Continued

Hello again!

After the excitement of Samara I didn't get around to mentioning some other bits and bobs from the last few weeks. I've now found myself with a spare few minutes (I'm currently sitting on the sofa in Nadia and Evgeny's flat - the couple who Dave and I stayed with when he visited - drinking coffee and eating biscuits. They've officially adopted me for my last week in Russia and so far it's working out just great) so I thought I'd write another cheeky blog.

The main thing I wanted to talk about was our visit to a local high school. Our wonderful teacher Tatiana Ivanovna pulled one of her many strings so that we could sit in on a few classes to get a feel for the education system. We were met at the tram station by two of the students, Katya and Dasha. They were both so polite, so professional and so darned happy to meet us. Katya in particular was bounding around like an excited puppy and immediately showered us with questions about us and about England and about our time in Russia, greeting every answer with impossibly wide eyes, a dramatic gasp and the Russian equivalent of "HOW COOL!" Once inside the school their enthusiasm didn't waver. They marched us straight to the first stop of the day - maths. The class was equivalent to a year 8 or year 9 lesson in an English secondary school but I'll be darned if such a disciplined and engaged year 8 or 9 class exists in England. There was no talking, no laughing, no silliness. Their hands shot rigidly into the air to answer each and every question and they were all desperate, not reluctant or embarrassed, to go up to the front to write their calculations on the board. My most prominent memory of pre-GCSE maths was locking a mobile phone in a locker at the back of the class and taking turns to ring it whilst claiming collective ignorance as to where the ringing was coming from, resulting in our teacher breaking down in tears. Not quite the same.

At the end of the class the teacher asked us some questions - Did you understand everything? (No) Are classes like this in England? (No) Do you enjoy maths? (Hahahaha!) Then she invited questions from us so we asked the kids if they speak any English, to which one young man replied "Yes! I speak English. I love Russia. I respect Russia." which just about sums it up. We then took a tour of the school and went to meet the student council. Again, I was so struck by their professionalism, their seriousness and how much pride they seemed to take in their education and their country. They asked us poignant, pointed questions about our culture and our impressions of Russia and were keen to share their opinions in return. Russian schools don't have a set uniform but there is a dress code - something along the lines of office wear. My sixth form had a similar dress code, which resulted in girls turning up in strappy tops, mini skirts, jeans or leggings. Clearly they envisaged a very liberal office. The Russian children, however, take the dress code seriously which results in them all looking very smart and clearly part of an institution but with each child able to express an element of their personality through their clothes. It was very cool. So this year I've seen both ends of the educational spectrum; Spain, where the kids run and scream and PDA in the corridors and swear at the teachers and chew gum and play on their phones and generally treat school as a social hub to hang out with their mates and Russia, where the kids are more like mini adults and stand to welcome the teacher into the room and take pride in their learning and wouldn't dare take a step out of line. I reckon England sits somewhere in the middle.

To me, the Russian education system is like a chicken and egg analogy - does their schooling instil in the children a seriousness and a boldness which develops into what we see as the Russian mentality, or is the mentality innate and that's what makes them take their schooling so seriously?

The other thing I'd wanted to give a proper mention to: my wonderful hosts. I said before that Russian hospitality is overwhelmingly generous. It turns out it also doesn't take no for an answer. After many insistences that I simply must pack up and live with them for my last week in Russia, I caved. Look at them looking all 1970's and awesome...

And Nadia and Evgeny are proving to be more and more wonderful by the day. Vodka for breakfast, green tea and biscuits before bed, trips to the forest to pick mushrooms, late nights learning to cook dumplings and translating Deep Purple lyrics. They take Russian hospitality to another level. I reckon this last week is gonna be a good'un.

X

Sunny Samara

This weekend I went on a little adventure to a nearby city called Samara (according to the interweb, the sixth largest city in the whole of Russia). It's on the bank of the Volga and is apparently making a bid to become an international tourist destination, which I think might be slightly ambitious if only for the fact that for most international tourists this would involve a 12 hour train ride from Moscow. It was a beautiful city (especially along the river bank) but perhaps not quite that beautiful. Travelling alone in Russia is a wee bit daunting but I was inspired to take the plunge by my solo adventure to Santiago in Spain and how great it turned out to be. And I'm pleased to report that going solo in Samara was an equally pleasant surprise!

I spent a lot of the weekend just wandering around and seeing where the streets would take me. It reminded me a lot of my first few weeks in Gijón - endless wandering and succumbing to the inevitability of getting lost and turning it into a little game to see how quickly I could find something familiar. This year has most certainly taught me to be a lot less of a cautious traveller in terms of navigation. I always used to be quite nervous of unfamiliar places, especially tackling the public transport, but this year I've had an epiphany that (usually) the worst that can happen is that you get a bit lost and have to backtrack and try again - you just have to be brave. So in Samara I was happily jumping on and off the various marshrutkas that came my way, no clue where they'd take me but pretty happy to go along for the ride!

On Saturday I found myself in a very large and very picturesque park. In Russia, the weekend is the time to get married so if you're out and about in a city, especially anywhere that's vaguely scenic, you're bound to come across a wedding party or two - the bride and groom leaning against a tree or sitting in a flowerbed and pouting at a camera while the rest of the group wander around, champagne bottles in hands and music booming from a nearby car radio. On a 20 minute stroll through this particular park in Samara I saw not one, not two, but twenty-seven wedding parties. Twenty seven. It started to feel like I was in a strange version of Groundhog Day. Another surreal experience took place in a little museum which had a sign outside naming it a museum of modern art. I'm quite partial to a modern art gallery, the odder the better - hours of entertainment and bewilderment. So I nipped inside. But on the first floor I found no trace of modern art. Instead, each room just had a informational plaque describing its interior design, the history of the building and its original function so I thought I must have mistranslated the sign outside. The lady who worked there came over (I was the sole visitor at the time), found out I was English and insisted on giving me the full tour. So we continued up to the second floor where, lo and behold, the modern art exhibition turned out to be. My self-appointed tour guide either hadn't noticed this minor detail or was choosing to ignore it (perhaps she's more of a traditionalist). So I found myself stood in a darkened room with a looping video being projected onto the wall of a naked man in a bathtub painting his body blue with a paintbrush, whilst the lovely little old lady persistently pointed out the light fittings (which I couldn't actually see) and the windows (which were boarded up) and told me about the Russian aristocracy. Strange.

Samara is also home to Stalin's Bunker, which was built as second headquarters for Stalin in 1942, in case Moscow were to fall to the Nazis. The bunker is 37 metres below ground and would have been able to withstand a direct hit from an aerial bomb. Stalin never actually had to use the bunker but it's still a pretty interesting piece of Soviet history and I was very keen to visit. When I found it on Saturday it was closed to the public and the sign said it would be closed on Sunday too (great logic there from the Russians) but on Sunday afternoon, on an absolute whim, I nipped back just in case and found a group from a cruise ship about to make their way inside for a tour. So I snuck in with them, on the premise that I was part of the cruise. And it was well worth it - eerie, interesting and something of a time capsule underground. Other Samara highlights include an accidental Catholic service attendance (by the time I realised what was going on, a nun had given me a hymn book and I felt far too awkward to leave), a pint of cold beer fresh from the local brewery tap, two spectacular sunsets and more ice cream than any one person should consume over the space of three days. Samara - success.

Other news this week (last week really - I've been a bit slack, sorry about that) concerns my living arrangements. The two girls who normally share this flat have come back to Ulyanovsk to start their academic year so all of a sudden I have not only flatmates but a room-mate! I'm not good at sharing... not good at all... so I freaked out a bit at first. I could not imagine sharing a bedroom with a total stranger with whom I can barely communicate. BUT (as with most things) it hasn't been even nearly as difficult as I expected. There's far less opportunity for me to do my daily One Woman Les Mis Medley and skyping is feels slightly awkward and impolite with someone else in the room. But otherwise day to day life has remained relatively unchanged! I feel very bad for the girls - to have to put up with a foreign intruder in their space - but they've been very good about it and have made a real effort to chat to me, so that's nice.

There is a lot more to write about but I've already blabbed on quite a bit so perhaps I'll make this one a two-parter. To be continued...!

X

P.S. HI JAMES

Vodka for breakfast

Oh my, what a busy two weeks.

The busyness began two Mondays ago with a trip to the local zip-wire park, Adrenalin. A bit like Go Ape, for those of you who've been, but with approximately 99% less health and safety regulations. There is something very liberating about going to a place like that without sitting through a compulsory 2 hour safety demonstration and having staff in hard hats waiting around every corner to check your ropes, remind you of the rules and stop you from doing anything too wild like fun police. Then again, as previously mentioned, I had a date in Moscow to get to so I was pretty keen to escape with my life and all limbs intact. With this in mind, I didn't go mad with my new found freedom, settling for semi sensible fun.

The very next day (muscles aching from head to toe from all the ladder climbing and zip lining) I packed up a little bag and headed to the train station. I was very excited at the prospect of meeting Dave in Moscow but with a 15 hour train journey and a half-day alone to get through before his arrival, I had to try to remain calm - 23 straight hours of intense excitement is just not sustainable. The train journey went pretty smoothly, as did finding the hostel once I'd arrived in Moscow. I then went to meet Yoanne for lunch who, by amazing coincidence, just happened to be in town that same weekend as part of her journey from Saint Petersburg on the Trans-Siberian Railway. We had a very lovely (albeit brief) catch up and before I knew it I was headed to the metro to get to the airport express train to meet Dave in arrivals. It suddenly struck me that (bar a slight detour to the hostel and to lunch) I was carrying out the exact reverse of the journey I'd made seven weeks previously when I first arrived in Russian, only this time I was happy and excited and carrying a tiny handbag instead of terrified and tired and lugging two suitcases. A very happy contrast indeed.

Moscow is a hard city to sum up - it doesn't feel all that friendly and I don't reckon it's very accessible for tourists (most of the signs on the metro are only in Russian, which is pretty mad for the capital city of the biggest country in the world) but it's certainly got its charm. On Thursday (Dave's birthday) we met up with Andrew - a Muscovite student of Tatiana's who she'd convinced to meet us for the day and show us round a bit (I swear she could sell ice to the Eskimos if she needed to). He was the perfect tour guide. Relaxed, friendly and full of little anecdotes and interesting bits of information about the major landmarks and the city's political history. In the evening Dave and I headed out for his birthday treat. We'd found a restaurant online called Cafe Pushkin, which sounded pricey but too cool to resist. We decided there's no better reason to splash out than a birthday and what a fantastic decision that turned out to be - Cafe Pushkin was definitely the highlight of our Moscow Adventure. The food was pretty sensational and the service was amazing - a very rare phenomenon in Russia indeed. We probably stood out like sore thumbs in our desperate attempts to take sneaky photos of the décor and grinning at each other like little children every time the waiter came to refill our wine glasses with a flourish.

On Friday we went to the Kremlin - the supposed highlight for any tourist in Moscow. It was certainly very impressive - beautiful in places - and holds a heck of lot of fascinating Russian history but I have to say (I hope Putin isn't reading this) that I wouldn't be inclined to recommend it all that highly as a Must See. Apparently the Armoury and the Diamond Vault are breathtaking so perhaps we would have been more impressed had we managed to see those too but we were pushed for time (and cash!) and settled on the basic entry tickets instead. On Saturday our plans were slightly scuppered by a pretty intense downfall of rain so instead of going to Gorky Park as planned we ended up at the State Tretyakov Gallery, which houses a bigger art collection that I ever thought possible to exist under one roof. Naturally (because it's becoming increasingly clear that we have no restraint whatsoever when it comes to food and drink) a lot of our time in Moscow was spent drinking beers and vodkas and cocktails and eating delicious meats and dumplings and ice cream. And suddenly it was time to head back to Ulyanovsk. The train journey was infinitely more enjoyable with a companion. We made the most of it by drinking some train beers, eating lots of train chocolate and playing train cards.

Tatiana had secured us a flat to stay in for three nights in Ulyanovsk because overnight guests are technically not allowed in the dorm. We knew that it was an empty flat and that there'd be an air-bed but otherwise we didn't know what to expect. Little did we know that the landlady and landlord were a fantastically friendly Russian couple in their 50s living on the same corridor who'd want to spend as much time with us as possible and feed us until we were fit to burst. We had vodka and pancakes and cheese and sour cream (of course) and sausage and bread and honey and fresh tomatoes and cucumber and apples and pears and grapes (all home grown). And that was just breakfast. The landlord took a very large shine to Dave, commenting more than once on how handsome he is and how well he sings and plays the guitar (after coercing him into giving a private concert in the lounge) and wanted to tell him all sorts of jokes and anecdotes. The only problem was that my translating skills were not quite up to scratch so I'd translate Yevgeny's jokes as best I could... "Something about a farmer... a Chinese farmer... working in a field..." etc etc, but once it got to the punchline I'd pull a blank and have to resort to telling Dave to just laugh and nod as if I'd understood. We got away with it but I can't help feeling a pang of guilt when I think of all those wasted punchlines. One time I lent across the table and ended up inadvertently dipping my finger in the sour cream. Without hesitation, Yevgeny grabbed my hand and licked it clean off whilst Dave looked on, powerless and bemused. And another time, when Nadia (the landlady) was out I happened to leave the room for 30 seconds, in which time Yevgeny poured a secret vodka shot for himself and Dave to hurriedly down while the women weren't watching.

It was a slightly overwhelming but highly enjoyable experience and my first real encounter of the renowned Russian hospitality that I'd read so much about but had yet to really come across first hand. It was a shame to say goodbye to them but I very much hope to see them again before I leave for good.

And then Wednesday evening arrived and it was time to head back to station to wave goodbye once more. They don't get any easier - these goodbyes - but there was a definite silver lining this time in that it was the official last goodbye of the Year Abroad. Crazy.

X

Code red: the jig is up

It's been a quiet week this week, mainly due to... wait... scrap that... WHOLLY due to the fact that I suddenly realised I had about five days in which to write a 1000 word essay. Normally I am the Queen of last minute essays. My laptop and I spent many a frantic night-before-deadline together last year in order to submit a passable 2000-3000 words the next morning so the prospect of 1000 words in five days should be nothing short of a luxury. But this was no normal essay. This essay required 1000 Russian words. Russian words put together in such a way as to coherently and intelligently describe an aspect of Russian culture. If physical torture had been offered as an alternative, I would've taken my chances on the rack.

Thus, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday AND Wednesday were reduced to an essay filled blur. I consumed much tea and spent much time on the internet getting distracted by just about anything other than relevant, essay based research, as is compulsory for students everywhere. I also managed to spend the best part of two hours cutting out little pieces of paper with the letters of the Cyrillic alphabet written on and sticking them to the corresponding key on my laptop with blue tac. Of course, once accomplished the typing became much easier so let's call it an investment rather than a last-ditch, desperate attempt at procrastination. Ahem. Then on Thursday morning I woke up, gave it one last look over (which proved absolutely futile considering I'd already forgotten what about 99% of the words meant, having relied almost entirely on my Russian dictionary to provide the content) and sent it off to Durham. And I was free once more.

On Thursday afternoon we went to a little photography museum in the town centre as part of an excursion organised by the international office. The university runs a two week summer school for foreign students so there are quite a few students from China and Germany here at the moment. The trips are technically arranged for them but we've managed to muscle in on the itinerary. I wasn't sure what to expect of the photography museum but it turned out to be a jolly delightful afternoon. First of all we were shown an exhibition detailing how they took photos in the old days (before instagram - can you even imagine). Then we were ushered into a room and shown how to make a photographic image with just a flash-light and photography paper. For this to work successfully, we were plunged into darkness and all of sudden, standing in the pitch black with a twenty strong group of international students, I was hit by a bolt of panic and terror - this is it. This is the end. This whole 'photography museum' exercise has just been an elaborate set up by the Russian government to get us into a darkened room and do away with us. Then they fired up a red lamp and I came to my senses and stopped being dramatic and made a pretty picture with the photographic paper. After that we were offered the chance to don some old-timey garb and pose for photos. As a chronic fancy dress aficionado, I was the first volunteer and I think it's safe to say I've found my new look:

On Saturday we rose bright and early and headed out with the same group to a big air show in the part of the city that lies on the other side of the Volga. I think that it was some sort of anniversary or commemoration of some sort of aviation thing or something but never quite figured out who, what or why. Suffice to say, there was a lot of plane based activities going on. Our first stop was the plane factory, which is one of the main landmarks of the city and at one point would've been the mainstay of its economy. We piled out of the mini bus - an international melting pot of German, British, Chinese and Russian students - and went to queue for tickets. Anna, one of the ladies from the international office who was with us, was speaking to the ladies at the desk for quite a while before coming over and telling us that they weren't going to let us in because they were worried we might gather sensitive information and report back to our respective nations. We all laughed but Anna remained straight-faced and assured us that it was no joke. They had genuinely turned us away. They thought we were spies. Spies. In Ulyanovsk. At this point we laughed even harder and commando-rolled our way towards the exit. I still don't know what's more worrying - the fact that they think their plane factory holds information worthy of reconnaissance, or the fact that they assume that spies come in the form of a giggling gaggle of teens and twenty-somethings. Aside from this hilarious mishap the day went smoothly and very enjoyably, culminating in a show from Russia's answer to the Red Arrows. 

And so ends another week in Ulyanovsk! The year abroad time-space continuum is continuing to work in strange and mysterious ways, with each week passing even quicker than the last. I'm sort of hoping it'll let up and slow down a bit next week though because, I don't mind telling you, I have a hot date in Moscow. Watch this space. 

BYE!

X 

A Russian mini-break

Over a month in Russia and I'm still yet to become a hardened vodka swiller. What's that about?!

The big news this week is that I've ventured outside of Ulyanovsk for the first time since arriving. Last weekend Andrew, Richard, Tina and I took a trip to the very nearby city of Kazan. We're slowly learning that the concept of 'very nearby' by Russian standards is an entirely different kettle of fish. Considering that they consider a 3 day train journey to be no big deal, the 4-hour marshrutka ride that we took was a veritable walk in the park. The previous afternoon we'd had a little baking session to make some delicious piroshki (otherwise known as greasy meat treats or heart attack pies) for the journey. Then it was just a case of getting up bright and early on Friday morning to head to the bus station. Upon arrival we found our hostel pretty easily and wasted absolutely no time in heading straight out to our first stop: not the magnificent Kremlin, not one of the many museums nor any of the history-steeped streets of the city. No no. Our first stop was Aqua Park. And I have no regrets. Aside from being reminded just how much fun it is to throw yourself down a vertical pipe made of plastic and full of water, I can also report that the Russians do not know how to queue. Not one bit. And I'm sure I don't need need to tell you quite how much that got our goat. We are British. And we queue. And that's that.

On Saturday we re-repressed our inner children and headed out in search of cultural enlightenment. Everyone back in Ulyanovsk had told us that the Kazan Kremlin is stunning but we still weren't fully prepared for the sight that met us as we walked up the steps out of the metro station. I thought maybe we'd accidentally missed our stop, taken a wrong turning and ended up in Disneyland.

The word Kremlin seems to have become synonymous with the one in Moscow but it does actually apply to any citadel or fortress. The Kazan Kremlin is home to a 16th-century cathedral, the palace of the President of Tatarstan and the Kul Sharif mosque. While it can't quite match up to that of the capital in terms of size (what with Moscow's five palaces and four cathedrals) I would have to say that the Kul Sharif mosque (pictured above) is probably the most beautiful building I've ever seen in real life. I nearly burned out the memory card on my camera in a desperate attempt to get a picture that came even close to doing it justice. We had a pretty perfect day wandering around, taking in the sights and basking in the sun. Then in the evening we headed out for a night on the tiles which came to a mojito-fuelled climax in an amazing bar called Cuba Libre. When worlds collide. Our Sunday activity was to head to the central stadium to watch a very conveniently timed match between Rubin Kazan and CSKA Moscow. I'd love to say that I awoke bright eyed, bushy tailed and full of football-ready energy. Suffice to say, my sunglasses were my best friend for most of the day and it was all I could do to not add to the tense atmosphere in the stands by vomiting on the head of the man in front of me. Crippling hangovers aside, it was a very interesting experience. The game itself never really got started but the spectators, the Moscow fans in particular, provided more than enough entertainment by letting off fireworks in the stands, releasing blue clouds of smoke and being generally terrifying. After the match it was time to head home and we were all very sad to have to say goodbye. Kazan gets a 10/10.

And yesterday we had to say another sad goodbye, this time to Andrew who is leaving us in search of Spanish-ier climes. He will be missed her in Ulyanovsk. To mark his departure we headed out for dinner and drinks on Thursday.When we arrived back to the hostel we decided to watch Game of Thrones in Andrew's room (on the 6th floor) so I ran upstairs to my room (on the 8th floor) to grab a drink and then nipped down to Tina's flat (on the 7th floor) before heading back to Andrew's. I rang the bell and stood waiting to be let in, clutching my carton of wine and a glass. The door opened and I was greeted by the nice young man from Palestine who lives in the flat next to mine. He seemed confused, looked at his watch and asked if I was hoping to come in for tea. I stuttered for a long time as my brain tried to process what was happening before the realisation dawned that I'd been in such a rush to get back to Game of Thrones that I'd absent-mindedly gone back up the stairs from Tina's flat, ending up back on my own floor. Of course, I couldn't begin to explain that in Russian. I muttered a hurried apology, waving my wine in his face by way of explanation and legged it. So I may be losing a friend in Andrew but I'm pretty confident that I laid some excellent groundwork for a stunning new friendship that night.

It's strange to be a Brit in Russia this week. If you haven't already seen Putin's homophobic Russia being expertly put under the spotlight by the wonderful Mr Stephen Fry, read this. I feel like a soldier who's accidentally wandered into enemy terrain but then sits down to have a cup of tea instead of giving them what for. We've signed contracts saying we won't engage in Russia's political life in any way and it's a well known fact that tourists in Russia can be arrested for promoting 'homosexual propaganda'. So can all my lawyer friends please remain on standby, just in case.

X

Trying to learn the ropes

Greetings all. I'm still alive! And still in Russia. And still all the more confused and bemused and surprised by this crazy crazy country by the second.

Lessons-wise I'm experiencing infrequent peaks and persistent troughs, as ever. But I can now recite Goldilocks and the Three Bears in Russian so if you're ever in a jam and a Russian Mafia boss is demanding you recite a traditional fairytale, you know who to call. Tatiana is continuing to show herself to be a pretty great teacher. She told me I need to try to read a book in Russian to expand my vocabulary base, so on Friday I impulse bought a copy of The Hobbit (or Хоббит in Russian). Does anyone fancy bribing the lecturers at Durham so that 'porridge', 'Orcs' and 'misty mountains' magically come up on an exam next year? I'd be much obliged.

On Friday evening Andrew, Richard, Dasha and I had a little party in Andrew's flat. I might have already mentioned this, but the uni dorms have an 11pm curfew (just take a minute to imagine the eruption of laughter that would occur if it were to be suggested that British university students should adhere to an 11pm curfew... pahahahaha). Last weekend we arrived back at 11:10pm after a few drinks at bar (and a quick pit-stop to play on some monkey bars) thinking that an extra 10 minutes surely couldn't do any harm. We had to ring a bell and a very large and very menacing lady opened the door to let us in with a steely glare. She was not happy. So we've since decided it's best to play by the rules and thought if we can't go to the party we'll have to bring the party to us. We bought had some beverages and put on some tunes and put the world to rights. We even spoke a bit of Russian. Just a bit though.

And yesterday the lovely Tina, who's in my class in Durham and who also goes to Emmanuel, arrived in Ulyanovsk. Sadly, Andrew and I were not on best form to welcome her with energy and enthusiasm having consumed a little bit too much wine the night before but we managed to pull ourselves together in time to go and meet Ivan, Dasha and another pilot called Aleksei in the centre of town. We assembled by the Lenin Memorial and went in search of somewhere to get some food. Once seated I noticed an old lady wearing a shawl walking around trying to sell roses. Suddenly she tapped me on the shoulder, thrusted a red rose in my face and gestured towards a man sitting behind me who'd sent it over. And the next thing I know she has forcibly pulled me up out of chair (for a seemingly frail little thing she had some scary strength) and is pushing me towards him, telling me that I should repay the favour by kissing him on the cheek. I was torn between terror, mortification and hysterical laughter. No one stepped in at this point to rescue so I was left stood in front of him with Russian eyes burning into the back of my head from every angle. I awkwardly patted him on the shoulder and thanked him before returning to my seat to stare at the table until my burning cheeks returned to a normal human colour. Classic Russia.

Afterwards we went for a walk, which seems to be a popular way to pass time for young people in Russia - just wandering about with no particular destination in mind. Unfortunately (and I'm sure they won't mind me saying, for the sake of cultural observation) the conversation between Ivan, Aleksei and I became quite heated as they began to discuss their views first on the roles of women and then on sexual orientation. I'm not naive about how Russia treats these issues and I fully expected that a lot of my opinions and views would be out of place here but I was still absolutely floored by some of the things that were said, especially coming from people of my own age. Perhaps it was disrespectful of me to speak up when I'm not on home soil . And I understand that their opinions are very much a product of the society they've grown up in. But anyone who knows me would know that for me to have bitten my tongue upon hearing what I consider to be a flippant and baseless denouncement of an entire demographic of people... well... it would have been harder than impossible. Anyway, we reached an amicable conclusion, agreeing to disagree. And the moral of the story for me is that there are certain topics of conversation that I will be avoiding at all costs during my time here.

In other news, I've been using my free time to go running like I used to in Spain. Running around the campus is not quite as inspiring as running along the beach in Gijón but fresh air is fresh air. Also in the last fortnight Andrew has introduced me to the world of Game of Thrones. Yes, I am arriving super late to the Game of Thrones party. But I gotta say it - it kicks butt. So compelling and so relentless and holy moly Sean Bean. Obviously this contributes in no way shape or form to our Russian learning experience but for Sean Bean I would sacrifice anything. And on that note I'll be off.

BYE!

X

English blondey lady

Week two in Ulyanovsk. I'm no longer quite so much of a loner thanks to the arrival of two other Durham students, Richard and Andrew. We'd never met before because they're in the year below and are just setting off on their year abroad adventure so naturally, as a veteran, I will prove invaluable in my ability to bestow upon them all of the wisdom and knowledge I have gained from my year so far. Please, try to suppress your laughter.

Lessons have begun and so far it's off a rocky start. We have two teachers - Tatiana and Ulsa - and my first impression is that they are both pretty darned fantastic. The first lesson was on Monday and it was actually... dare I say it... enjoyable. Tatiana complimented me a whole lot on my accent, saying that the English twang is practically undetectable. The years of imitating bond villains have clearly paid off. And there wasn't an awful lot that flew over my head, which is almost unprecedented in my Russian learning experience. The second and third lessons were somewhat trickier. In Durham, our lessons often consisted of a group of about 12 of us sitting in sort of semi-circle and we'd be asked questions from a worksheet or grammar book one by one. I developed a tactic to always sit in the middle so that I'd never be asked first. I'd count down the line to see which number I was, then count down to the corresponding question and frantically (but subtly) whip through my dictionary and my verb tables so that, by the time it was my turn, I could produce a seemingly spontaneously correct answer to my question. This is one of the reasons why the teachers at Durham didn't cotton on to the true extent of my ineptitude until it was probably too late. Unfortunately, this tactic doesn't fly when applied to a class of three students. There's no time to look anything up. There's nowhere to hide.

On Thursday the ladies in the university office organised a trip to a plane museum so we jumped in a mini bus together with the students from Belarus. We arrived at the museum which looked more like the sprawling back yard of an expert plane thief. I didn't understand a word the guide was saying (partly because I was so distracted by the massive hammer and sickle on his belt buckle) so I made do by making interested 'mmmhmmm' sounds at regular intervals. But the sun was shining and we were surrounded by freakin' massive planes and helicopters so it was still a very enjoyable afternoon. Due to a terrifying lack of health and safety regulations we were more than welcome to climb up onto the wing of a Concorde-esque jet and run around like small children with our arms out like wings. Naturally, we obliged.

Upon leaving we were stopped by the owner who was very keen to know what we thought of the museum and to test out his English on us. He told me that he was very pleased to meet a 'real English blondey lady' and that he saw his dreams reflection in my eyes. So that's nice. He then gave me his email address and told me I should email him when it's raining and I'm bored because he has an extensive LP collection which he'd like to show me. Who says the Russians aren't friendly?!

On Friday Andrew and I ventured to the beach, which I'd been reluctant to do on my own because it involves catching a Marshrutka. They're basically like a massive white van that's been gutted and then had some chairs bolted to the floor. You jump on and find a space to lodge yourself into (seats are not always for available) and then hand your fare to a complete stranger so it can get passed down to the driver who takes it and counts out your change as he drives. They drive at break-neck speed and you have to shout at the driver to get them to stop when you want to get off. Sounds safe, doesn't it? But we braved it and we made it there and back almost totally unscathed. Score 1 to us. And yesterday we did another brave thing - we went to the cinema. I had all my fingers and toes crossed that it would be subtitled but because it was an animation (Monsters University no less) it was dubbed. My heart sank and I donned my 3D glasses, expecting a boring and confusing couple of hours but I was pleasantly surprised by how much I understood (this can probably be put down to the fact that the film is partly aimed at little children, whose native language ability has only developed about as far as my Russia. But I'm still counting it as a victory). 

It's been a far more active, far less lonely week. I met a couple more very friendly pilots who took me to try some traditional Russian borcsh (beetroot soup) and kvass (a drink made from fermented bread) both of which were (surprisingly) ridiculously tasty. And Richard introduced Andrew and I to his very lovely Russian friend who he knows having already spent time in Ulyanovsk in the spring. Yay, friends!

I'm still very unsure about how this Russian malarkey fits in to the bigger picture and what I should do in the long run but the plan is to take every day as it comes and hopefully an answer will present itself naturally in due course. 

До встречи!

X

And so it begins...

I'm in Russia. I've pinched myself a few times but this would appear to be real life. Oh my.

Mum, Dave and I set off at 4am on Saturday morning. At this point I was still so firmly rooted in denial that I just kept thinking to myself "we really are going to a lot of effort to make this ‘Russia’ plot seem convincing" This thought prevailed right up until the moment when I had to say goodbye and make my way through to security, when it was all too real to deny any longer. And my reaction was to burst into tears. Unfortunately, the tears were as persistent as my denial had been, which was more than a little awkward for the lady who checked my passport, the woman who had to pat me down after I set off the buzzer, the young man who sold me my bottle of water in WHSmith and the couple who I sat next to on the plane. Thankfully once we took off I managed to regain control.

We landed in Moscow at 2pm local time only two spend 2 horrendous hours stuck in a mob of people trying to fight their way through passport control. The only time I can recall being stuck in such a sweaty, crowded and rowdy group of people is at Glastonbury except this time there was no Beyonce to make it all worthwhile. I made friends with a chatty Australian fella in the midst of the chaos which numbed the pain a little. Finally, we were through and I went to collect my suitcase and head for the express train. Coming above ground really surprised me - from the train window everything looked so... normal. Lots of normal green trees and a normal-looking motorway and normal buildings and things. I suppose I was expecting absolutely everything to be unfamiliar and strange. Russia-ified somehow.

Then it was on to the metro. Let me tell you... Navigating an extremely busy and dauntingly unfamiliar metro system in 30 degree heat dragging 35kg of luggage behind you is an unpleasant task to say the least. I ended up basically throwing my suitcase down a few flights of stairs to avoid having to lift it. The Russians weren't that quick to help a damsel in distress either. I had the route planned out but it turned out to be slightly more complicated than I expected - more stairs and much more walking. Plus all of the signs were in Russian. Bloody Russian. At one point I squeezed onto a crowded train and practically collapsed against the door absolutely drenched in sweat and a nice lady took pity on me and helped me to prop my cases up against the wall. When we got off the train she leaned in to ask where I was headed next. Unfortunately I slightly misread the situation and thought she was just saying a friendly goodbye so I kissed her on the cheek. Needless to say, that was awkward.

Eventually I made it to the main station where I was to get the train to Ulyanovsk. I've been told that Russians love ice cream but it was still a strange sight to see nearly all of the commuters and businessmen and travellers stood around the grey, muggy station eating ice-cream cones as if they were on holiday in Blackpool. The train was a very novel experience. I found my bunk (yep, bunk. That’s how we roll in Russia) pretty easily and managed to jam my cases into a corner with the help of two very nice ladies who had the bunks under mine. The stewardess clocked me immediately and came over to help me make the bed - my look of helplessness probably said it all. I was so knackered from the journey so far that I climbed up onto my bunk and spent the next 15 hours in various states of sleep.

The train arrived in Ulyanovsk at 9am and I was met at the station by a lady from the university called Inna. We got in a taxi and came straight to the campus, which is a little way out of town. My dorm is... interesting. Ulyanovsk ain’t got nothing on Collingwood that’s for damn sure. Three girls live here during term time but you wouldn't know they'd gone home for the summer judging by the fact that all of their stuff is still here. Food, clothes, toiletries, pictures and decorations and even rubbish. It made me feel like a squatter at first... Like I'd just snuck into someone else's flat and made myself at home. And then on Monday one of the girls came back unexpectedly for a few days and walked in to find me sitting in her bedroom listening to the Les Mis soundtrack in my PJs. Awkward is not the word. I was like a rabbit in headlights and mumbled something along the lines of "Hello, I'm English, I live here" and then ran to the uni to get help. There's no washing machine and apparently I have to ring a lady to come collect my laundry when it needs doing but I don’t like making phonecalls at the best of times so I'll be washing my clothes in the bath tub I reckon. And the toilet is like some kind of torture chamber. The view ain't bad though...

Ulyanovsk as a place has definitely surpassed my expectations. For one thing the Volga River is pretty spectacular. It's freaking massive! So big that they've made an actual sandy beach which is just as big as any beach I've ever been to. You wouldn't know you weren't on the coast. Until you go for a dip and you emerge with a slightly green sheen from the ever-so-slightly slimy water. But beggars certainly can't be choosers - a beach is a beach and I spent a lovely afternoon there on Sunday with some boys from Belarus. I even had a cold beer in the sun. The boys didn't speak a lot of English and I don't need to tell you how my Russian skills are, so we heavily relied on gesture and facial expression. It's amazing how much of a rapport you can strike up via a game of charades. In the evening we went to a bar at the top of a 28 storey building with a dazzling view out over the city. Strangely, a lot about Ulyanovsk is reminding me of my time in Costa Rica - the same climate (sweltering heat to thunder and lightning in 0.01 seconds), the same little wooden shacks oddly sandwiched between big concrete towers and the same the lack of brand names and franchises. The public transport is similar too - trams that look like they should have been taken out of service decades ago (and which cost 24p per trip) and taxi drivers with a terrifying disregard for safety.

On Tuesday a lovely Russian boy named Mark came with me to help me get a Russian SIM card and ended up showing me round a bit. My hopes were high that I'd made my first Official Friend. But unfortunately he left Ulyanovsk yesterday and won't be back until after I'm gone again. Mark told me that Russians can be like closed boxes - if you walk past someone in the street you'll be lucky to get a smile and there's something of a hostile vibe but if you have the chance to engage properly they can't do enough for you. From what I've experienced so far and the people I have had a chance to engage with - the few ladies who helped me along my journey, the friendly cleaner who came to my dorm this morning and certainly from Mark himself, that seems to be a pretty accurate appraisal.

Overall it's been a quiet week. My classes don't start until Monday so I've had to occupy myself, which is harder than it sounds given that there aren't many students around and there isn't an awful lot to do. But I've been getting my bearings and exploring and preparing for the learning to commence next week. It's been lonely but not dreadful. The next few months are pretty uncertain. I'm hoping for a language epiphany but if it doesn't come who knows what will happen. For the meantime I'm trying to keep an positive mindset. Verdict so far: Russia is interesting and strange and scary and kind of cool.

X

A belated farewell

Hello!

I've been meaning to write this post for the last week and a half but have found myself far too wrapped up in being at home, catching up with people and, of course, preparing for stage 2 of the journey: Russia.

Everything came to an end all too suddenly in Spain. The last week was fantastic and was marked in a number of ways at school - from homemade brownies to posters and cards. One amazing class even learnt a song by heart in English and serenaded me with it. It got me so emotional that when it came to making a parting speech and my chance to impart some final words of wisdom upon them, I found myself, for a reason that is still unknown to me, blubbing about how they should watch Les Mis because it will help them learn English and it will touch their souls and it would make me so happy if they could love it as much as I do. I don't mind telling you I got a few blank stares for that outburst.

A lot of the kids asked if they could follow me on twitter which has resulted in the biggest boost in followers my account has ever experienced. Score. And one of my favorite students even managed a few tears. The teachers were equally lovely, all wishing me well in Russia and asking me to keep in touch. It was a very sad occasion all round and, unlikely as it may be, I'd like to think I could visit in the years to come to catch up with them all.

I spent my last evening in Gijón in the most appropriate way possible - stuffing my face full of tasty food and sidra at Tierrastur with a big group of friends. I assured myself that it would be an early night, what with having to pack the following day to leave forever. Midnight came and went and the beers were rolling and the music was bangin' but I kept telling myself that I really should make a move soon. To cut a long story short... one thing led to another and all of a sudden it was 8am and Jean and I were stumbling home to our flats, clutching our sandy belongings which we'd left on the beach before running to the sea for one last drunken dip. It was a perfect way to end the night. The way I felt when I awoke on Saturday at 3pm, still full of sidra and with packing and cleaning to be done and the small detail of a flight to catch in 6 hours however, was decidedly less-than-perfect. 

And to top off the perfect last week in Gijón, this happened: 

So there we have it. Spain is over. I've done a LOT of freakin' awesome stuff (I just reread some old blog posts from throughout the year and it really hit home just how much awesome stuff I've been able to do. I'm very grateful for the lot of it) and made some freakin' wonderful friends. And for many of those friends it's hopefully just 'hasta luego' instead of 'adios'. Yeah, that's cheesy. Sorry. 

There'll be a period of downtime for this blog now as I travel up and down and around the country catching up with people and visiting friends but please tune back in for phase two: Ulyanovsk (you know? Ulyanovsk...? That really well-known city... you know... the one where there's... and they... ummm... right, yeah, no one's heard of it) which promises to be a voyage of fear and discovery. Gulp. 

X

The home stretch

The wonderful and beautiful Joni Mitchell sang it best: Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone. Never a truer word spoken. As is so totally typical of human nature, with less than a week to go until I leave I find myself focusing more and  more on all the fantastic things about living in Gijón - things that I suddenly feel as though I've taken for granted or not made the most of these past 9 months. 9 months?! Flippin' heck... where did it go? I naively thought that spending 9 months in a country was a sure fire route to fluency but when a class of second years asked me the other day if I'd speak Spanish to them, all I could come up with was to show them my finely-tuned flair for coffee ordering. Not exactly ground-breaking (although they did say they were impressed with the way I pronounce the Spanish 'r'. If that doesn't get me a first I don't know what will).

Living on the doorstep of a beautiful beach is gonna be hard to let go of. And having to pay more than 2 euros for a beer will be something of a shock to the system upon returning home. On the topic of food and drink: last weekend I took a road trip to San Sebastian with Alex and her two lovely friends from Navia. We had a very lovely and relaxed weekend that consisted of soaking in the atmosphere of the city, a spot of shopping, a bit of sight-seeing and a whole lot of food and drink. True ladies of leisure. I raved about the egg tarts in Lisbon and now I'm going to rave about the tapas of San Sebastian. THEY WERE SO GOOD. Bars literally laden with every combination of cheesey, meaty, fishy delight that you could dare to imagine. And the best part is that you just dig in and pay up afterwards - no waiting for service and better yet (after such incidents as order-a-chicken-sandwich-but-receive-a-cup-of-tea) no awkward ordering faux pas! (fact of the day: faux pas is the same in the singular and the plural. I know because I just googled it.)

Food glorious food

San Sebastian is definitely worth a visit. I can easily imagine whiling away many an hour simply strolling up and down the beautiful coastline in the height of summer. The reality of our mid-May visit was slightly soggier and umbrella-laden but the rain only meant that we head to go in search of shelter and shelter meant martinis. No complaints there.

Another week, another near death experience on a surfboard. Although I'm actually starting to think that getting in and out of the wetsuit presents more danger than the sport itself. Nothing destroys the illusion of grace and femininity that you've tried to maintain quite like slipping about on a wet, tiled floor with both arms stuck inside the torso of your wetsuit and salty, tangled hair plastered across your face. Like a demented, blind penguin. Surfing is great though... I'll definitely be looking into chances to take it up again in the future wherever possible. 

Last Wednesday I went to my weekly private class with two brothers. The younger brother, Rodrigo, is quite frankly one of my favourite people ever and has provided me with some of my most entertaining and soon to be most treasured moments in Spain. From him opening the front door and exclaiming 'good morning!!' every week without fail before remembering that it is, in fact, half past five in the afternoon, slapping himself on the forehead and stomping his way upstairs reprimanding himself under his breath... to the time when he branded Jack as a 'bloody imbecile' for choosing to climb the beanstalk. He is a legend. Anyway, on Wednesday at the end of the lesson his mum walked in and handed me a goodbye present that she said they'd both picked out themselves and that Rodrigo had been incapable of waiting two weeks to give me. Needless to say I was biting back the tears. I will wear my matching necklace and earrings set with extreme pride. 

Things are truly winding down at school too. Most of the kids are aware that I'm soon to depart. Today I received a goodbye poster from a fantastic class of first years adorned with emotionally gems such as 'don't ever change, you're special how you are' and 'we know you can be an actress!' and 'for our favourite blonde'. And they greeted me into the classroom with a standing ovation. It was a pretty special moment. And the eccentric male teacher who bakes a new cake for the staffroom EVERY SINGLE DAY has been plying me with double helpings of cake, which I've taken as his way of saying goodbye. 

So, it's really happening... Spain is drawing to a close. I hope to squeeze in one more blog before I leave and then there'll be a period of down-time before in all starts again in... gulp... Russia. 

X

Jet setting

Alright, go on... I'll admit it... I'll put my hands up in the air and say... I'm a lucky little so-and-so getting to do this whole year abroad malarkey and the travelling and experiences that it allows. And the last two weeks have been a perfect example and an apt reminder of this fact thanks to two consecutive weekends spent being a professional jet setter.

Two weekends ago Jean, Tom and I headed to Lisbon for a mini break. VERY mini break would probably be more accurate considering we arrived late Friday afternoon and left again early on Sunday morning. But the short-lived nature of our visit certainly didn't mar the experience. Upon arrival we dumped our stuff off at our snazzy hostel and went straight back out in search of the castle of São Jorge which was an awesome site that would make the perfect setting for some sort of Medieval drama. Or a scene from LOTR. Or Harry Potter. Suffice to say, it was epic and beautiful. We then turned to trusty Trip Advisor to point us somewhere for dinner and our little pal didn't disappoint - we ended up feasting on wine and tapas in a trendy little cafe/bar which was run by an equally trendy gay couple. I was pretty much in heaven. On Saturday we started off at the oceanarium (penguins = joy) and then we headed to Belém, a lovely historical area in the West of the city. We saw the famous Jerónimos monastery, the Belém tower and the impressive Discovery Monument in homage to the Portugese age of discovery. But all of these fantastic sights, steeped in history and culture, paled in comparison to the experience of the mighty Pastéis de Belém . These are the little egg tarts that the area is famous for. If you've never tasted something that has made you exclaim with joy and delight; clench your fist and punch the air in pure elation, get yourself to Lisbon now for a taste of heaven. On Sunday morning we rose with just enough time to ride one of the iconic yellow trams that trundle around the city (speaking of trams, did you know that Gaudi was killed by a tram?! Fact of the day.) before heading to the airport to catch the plane back home! Verdict: I like Lisbon. I like it a lot.

Now, as if that wasn't spectacular enough, the very next Thursday I woke up early mearly to head back to Asturias airport (which is beginning to feel like a second home) to head to my favourite city in all the world: Barcelona. I spent the day wandering the streets, taking in sights and sounds and being deliriously excited about the ticket to see The XX at the Poble Espanyol that night that was tucked away in my bag. At 6pm I went to meet my long-lost-friend from school - the wonderful Katie Holloway and we had a truly superb evening full of sangria, strawberries, new American friends, beer and tapas and, of course, The XX who blew my freakin' mind.

The next day I left Katie again (sadly) and went to check in at our hostel. 'Our?' I hear you cry... 'But who were you with?!' Well, those of you with Facebook may have noticed a recently uploaded album featuring an obscene amount of pictures of a certain dashing young man sporting an outrageous pair of lime green sunglasses. Sian and Dave hit Barcelona, 2K13. What followed was a long weekend that is hard to put into words. So I'll just make a rambling list instead: We drank more Sangria and beer and wine of every colour and gin and tonic and mojitos than I thought physically possible. We ate paella in the sunshine and we sampled fusion cuisine in a tiny little Arabic restaurant in the Barri Gotic. We saw the Magic Fountains of Mountjiuc and wandered up to the National Palace. We went to Parc Guell and the Sagrada Familia (which is worth every penny spent. It's a jaw dropper.) We spent an afternoon on the beach and ate lots of ice cream and we went in the cable car out across the port. We did ALL THE THINGS!

Look! It's Dave! In Barcelona!

Basically, we made up for months on end of seperation and skype-dates and whatsapps in style. Dear Barcelona, I love you long time, love Sian.

I've now been surfing a grand total of five times. And the reality still isn't quite living up to the Baywatch dream. I think I've swallowed my own body weight in seawater. And the other day I got caught in a current and couldn't get back to shore and had to have a little cry because my arms hurt too much to paddle and all I could picture were swarms of sharks and jellyfish and octupi circling round like vultures waiting for me to pop my clogs. AND (disclaimer: what follows is a disgusting story) on Friday I was minding my own buisness at 8pm, a full 7 hours after having been surfing, when a torrent of seawater suddenly shot out of my nose!! For real. I am the epitome of cool.

Hasta luego.

X

The Final Countdown...

HELLO! Very long time no see. Since my last post all sorts of things have happened so I'm not really sure sure where to start. The main reason for my absence from the blogosphere was a two week trip back to Blighty for Easter. It was a simply wonderful time and consisted of such delights as watching some friends perform their improvised comedy show (check them out, they're swell: http://www.soop.org.uk/), various meals in and out with friends and family at home and away, popping to Southampton to see Hairspray at the Mayflower, being treated to a swanky night out in Bath, being a guest at a lovely wedding and a visit to the optician. Yes, that counts as a delight. I love going to the optician. Don't judge. As ever, the two weeks flew by in the blink of an eye and now I'm back in the English department at Calderon de la Barca high school with only 6 weeks standing between me and the very end of this Spanish adventure. It's the final countdown. And that's actually pretty darned sad.

My last week or so in Gijón before Easter turned out to be a rather eventful one. I had a spontaneous solo adventure to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia for the weekend. Jean and Laura had already planned a weekend away to Granada but I'd decided not to join them, feeling pretty sick at the thought of the 24-hour round coach journey that they would have to endure. But passing up on a travelling opportunity only to sit on my tod feeling sorry for myself all weekend didn't seem to make much sense so instead I took the plunge, booked a hostel for one and set off. It was a very daunting prospect and I set off in the mindset that it would be a lonely and unenjoyable experience but that I'd endure it for the sake of doing something instead of nothing. But I'm happy to report that I was incredibly pleasantly surprised. There was no boredom, no lonliness, no nerves or fear. Luckily, it's a flippin' stunning city so I was constantly entertained by merely looking around. There's a wealth of museums, galleries, parks, beautiful churches and squares and the cathedral most certainly lived up to its international reputation. I think I managed to see pretty much everything that I'd wanted to in the time that I was there - I stayed for two nights which turned out to be the perfect amount of time - one night more and the lonliness may well have started to creep in. One of the nights I ended up being taken under the wing of a Spanish family as I ventured into a church for a choral concert. The invited me to stay at their house and told me to visit them in the Summer. It was strange, but amazing. The whole weekend was a fantastic experience and, as cheesy as it sounds, I'll have to admit that it was just as character-building and horizon-expanding as travelling alone is often advertised to be.

When I arrived back from Santiago I had a few days at school and then whizzed off again, this time to stay with a Spanish friend in his hometown of Navia, which just so happens to be where Alex has been placed this year. We met up with Alex and went to a mahusive outdoor Easter party complete with 4 different stages upon which denim-clad groups of spaniards regaled us with disco covers of English and Spanish chart music into the early hours of the morning. It was very surreal and very entertaining and I ended the night soaked in beer and rain (and I dread to think what else) and totally exhausted. We partied like true Spaniards.

And since coming back after Easter the pace has stayed pretty darned... well... pacy! This weekend mi madre flew across the pond to visit for a few days and to get a feel of Gijon. This meant a weekend full of eating, drinking and being generally merry. We wandered around the city and along the coast as I tried to point out different spots of interest and to regale Mum with stories of my adventures here so far. On Friday night we went out to have a few glasses (which turned into plenty of glasses) of wine and found ourselves right in the middle of the Feria de Abril, a festival which celebrates all things Andalucian. All of the waitresses were dressed up as flamenco dancers and the wine and tapas were coming at as faster than we could keep up with. At one point a couple stood up from their table and proceeded to dance some intensely steamy flamenco about 2cm from where we were sat. It an absolute stroke of luck to have stumbled across such an authentic Spanish experience. Mum reckoned they knew she was coming. 

On Sunday morning I took to the sea for my first ever surf lesson. The sun was shining and the waves were perfect. Had I not been nursing a hangover from the night before I would have been overflowing with enthusiasm. As it was, the struggle to get into my wetsuit alone (it brought to mind images of an eposide involving Jim Cary as Ace Ventura and a Rhino...) nearly killed me. But once in the sea I had an absolute blast and am seriously itching to go again despite every muscle in my body, some I didn't know existed, aching like they've never ached before. 

There's lots planned for this last stint in Spain, including a trip to Lisbon, another to Barcelona and a weekend away in San Sebastian. The sun is shining, I'm excited, BRING IT ON.

X

'British Culture'

I mentioned a few times that the third years (14-year-olds) have been working on a project based on different aspects of British culture. Last week they completed their projects and their work is now on display in the school foyer. They all ended up getting incredibly stuck in (well, nearly all) and developing a genuine interest in what they were researching. I can't say that all the information is factually correct ('The Royals' group, for example, casually skipped a few hundred years in their family tree) but they seemed to enjoy themselves and they certainly reveled in the opportunity to be a bit more independent in their studies. Success!

London

(They are now all completely fascinated by Boris Johnson. "But he's very freaky, no?")

 Media

(I think this group had a few motivational issues...)

Food

(The verdict: the Brits are addicted to grease, fat and cheese)

Education

(The girls working on this topic are genuises. They should probably run the school)

British Teenagers

(I certainly did not endorse the inclusion of a picture of One Direction)

The Royals
(I can't tell you how much they loved the story of Prince Harry gettin' naked in Vegas)

The Welfare State

(Just like at the Olympics opening ceremony, the NHS takes pride of place. Hooray for the NHS!)

Good old Spain

Another update from sunny-rainy-sunny-rainy Spain (it’s not just British weather that seems to have taken a turn for the bipolar recently, trust me).

Since my last post I’ve been on two school trips, posing as a responsible adult. Truth be told, faced with the prospect of a school trip I still very much want to run to the bus to shotgun the back seat and pull silly faces or wave at passing motorists out of the window. So it was a full time effort to maintain the respectable teacher façade. The first trip was to a very interesting exhibition in Oviedo about the lives of the Iberians. We met in the school foyer ready to leave at 10.30am. Suddenly, a girl raced up to the teacher to tell her that she’d forgotten to get her mum to sign her permission slip. I shook my head in pity, knowing from personal experience that she probably had a long lonely day sat in the school library doing homework ahead of her. But wait… this is Spain… I should have known… the teacher just shrugged and told her to get on the bus and bring the permission slip another day. When we arrived in Oviedo there were smatterings of snow from the night before so the kids sprinted around, climbing onto rooftops and lobbing snowballs at each other, at buildings and at total strangers. The teachers just looked on, totally nonplussed. The second trip was to the remains of a beautiful pre-Romanesque church. This time, the kids got their kicks out of trying to push each other out of windows and down stairs and running into bars and cafes at random to see if they could steal straws. At one point I tentatively asked the male teacher if perhaps the students should be making some notes or at the very least listening to the guide. He looked at me as if I’d asked him whether flying pigs truly exist, exhaled slowly and said "In theory." But aside from being flipping mental and far from traditionally well-behaved, the students were great company on both trips and we had a lot of fun.

On Saturday a few of us drove to Llanes which is a stunning little coastal town about 55 miles away from Gijon. It was a bloody great day. We parked up and walked along a cliff which provided us with some pretty fantastic views – to my right were the snow-capped peaks of the Picos de Europa, to my left the sea was crashing and smashing against the rocks and straight ahead was the town itself with a little golden beach to boot. This is definitely one of the most special things about Asturias – the sheer variety of the landscape and in such close proximity. We spent a few hours mooching around and taking in the sights, stopping for lunch halfway through. After lunch, we went in search of a landmark that Jean and I in particular have been super keen to see. In Llanes stands the house where they filmed ´The Orphanage’. If you haven’t see it, I’d highly recommend it. Unless you’re of a nervous disposition. I saw it at the cinema when it first came out in 2007 and can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever come quite so close to crying with fear. But it is fantastic. I promise. The road where the house is situated turned out to be full of houses that could have fit the bill – deserted, dilapidated, dark and steeped in scary movie clichés. 

We then jumped back in the car and went in search of an inland beach up in the cliffs and to find some geysers that were rumoured to be in the vicinity. Finding the beach was easy enough but the geysers proved to be slightly more elusive. But we eventually found them and they were well worth the wait… I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about what a geyser actually is or what one would be like but I can tell you now that they were freaking cool. They sounded like sleeping dragons and the force of the spray shooting up through the ground was pretty spectacular. Unfortunately due to the delay in trying to locate them, we ended up having to walk back to the car, through fields and woods, in the fog and rain, in the middle of the countryside, shrouded in darkness. This was far from ideal considering we’d spent a good chunk of the day thinking about horror-film clichés. Eventually we made it back alive and by the time we arrived back in Gijon it was all I could do to crawl into bed with a cup of tea. The sign of a good day well spent.

Last night three of us went to see the latest Almodovar film ‘Los Amantes Pasajeros’. I LOVE Almodovar. I love the non-sensical and risqué style of his films. So to see one of his films in Spain without subtitles was definitely on my Year Abroad checklist. Despite the rest of the world often quoting him as being the face of Spanish film-making, he tends to split opinion pretty drastically on home soil so when I mentioned to a few of my teachers that I was really keen to see his new film they immediately launched into speeches outlining how and why his films are full of bad morals and horrendous stereotyping. On face value, that may be true but it’s all done with tongue jammed firmly in cheek and with more levels of irony than you can shake a stick at. ‘Los Amantes Pasajeros’ was a throwback to the films he made in the 80s during La Movida movement, without the dark and disturbing edge of his some of his more recent films. It was colourful, it was silly, it was incredibly risqué and I loved it.  

About an hour ago I had to get stern with a class for the first time. To be honest I haven’t quite mastered the fine line between ‘I’m your friend’ and ‘but you must respect me’ so the class ended up descending into madness. I rolled up my sleeves and put on my most serious ‘don’t mess with me’ face and told them, in no uncertain terms, that whilst it’s great to be able to have fun in lessons, if they weren’t going to concentrate then we’d sit in silence for the rest of the hour. One of the boys put up his hand and said “Teacher, can I tell I joke?” I told him I didn’t really think it was the appropriate time but if it was relevant and would re-lighten the mood then fine. So he said “What’s the different between work and study?... Don’t ask me! I’m Spanish! I don’t do nothing! Hahahaha”. And the whole class fell about laughing. 

Busy bee

As we all know, time really drags when you sit on your bum doing nothing. Which is why I'm trying my best to keep busy busy busy until Easter. I got the plan off to a (literally) flying start in the shape of an all too brief trip back to Durham. I jumped on a bus on Thursday morning, then jumped on a plane, then a train, then a coach, then another train and arrived in Durham approximately 14 hours later. Easy peasy. It was a splendid weekend and a happy/sad reminder of why I miss the place so much. Friday and Saturday whizzed by in a blur of wonderfully-familiar faces, coffee, dancing, dodgems, cobbled streets and musical rehearsal and before I knew it I was sitting back on the sofa in my little Spanish flat on Sunday, wondering whether it had all been a surreal dream (although not before a incredibly special coffee date at Victoria coach station, 7am, Sunday morning, to send me off back to Spain in style. The things he does for me, eh?). Back at school on Monday a lot of my students (and teachers) were incredibly confused as to how I'd managed to leave the country and come back again since they'd last seen me leaving school the previous Wednesday afternoon. Most of them seemed to think I was mad to trade in so many hours worth of travelling for so few hours on solid ground. 'Durham's worth it.' I told them.

I've mentioned a few times my intentions to start extra curricular drama lessons. Now, before coming to Spain, I didn't ever think that a lack of red tape could prove just as problematic as too much of it. But sadly, my efforts in this venture so far been thwarted at every turn thanks to the non-existence of procedure here in not-so-sunny Spain. Do I need permission slips? What about room bookings? How should I decide on timings? And dates? Which age groups would be suitable? How many responsible adults are needed per child? Must a qualified first aided be present? All met with shrugs and blank faces. But I'm not giving up quite yet. And it certainly hasn't stopped me from forcing theatrical activity into daily classes wheresoever I see fit. Inkeeping with this theme, one of my classes has been putting together little soap operas for the past few weeks and it is providing me with constant entertainment. Last Wednesday the groups performed to the rest of the class to show off their works-in-progress. My favourite group produced a story that was set in the Vatican City but that was strangely called 'Castle'. I'm still not sure why. The curtain went up to show the Pope parading through the city in his Pope Mobile. Suddenly, Batman swooped in and killed him in cold blood. Of course, no one saw because he was wearing an invisibility cloak. But, never fear, Inspector Poirot arrived to solve the case. Turns out Batman and his girlfriend (who just happened to be the newsreader) were in it together. Somewhere in the middle there was a subplot involving Justin Timberlake and his many lovers but I had somewhat lost track by this point. 

Another facet of my 'busy' plan is to try to spend more time exploring the region. So on Saturday Jean and I took a trip to a little town of Luanco. I'll be honest, it wasn't the most exciting place to be but the weather was fine, the sky was stunning, the air was fresh and we agreed that it was refreshing to go somewhere new for the day. The climax of the trip occurred at around 4pm when, walking along the beach, we noticed a very large fish that had found itself washed up on the shore and was thrashing around in the sand. Now, when I say 'noticed', what I actually mean is that we saw it, shrieked, screamed, jumped up and down and and ran around in little circles in a panicked frenzy for a minute or two. Eventually, we calmed down and I did what any decent human being would do: rolled up my sleeves, picked up and the fish and lobbed it back into the sea. Then we stood back to admire our handiwork and watch it gaily swim back out to deeper waters to rejoin its kin. Unfortunately, 10 minutes later it was still splashing around about 2 meteres from the shore so I can't help thinking that, instead of saving its poor little life, we actually prolonged its agony. At least we tried.

(Here's me picking up the fish. Yes, the angle and my pose are slightly unflattering, for which I apologise. But it's a good action shot so I'm willing to overlook my pride.)

On the way home we also stopped by the Maritime museum which, despite our low expectations, turned out to be incredibly entertaining and an afternoon well spent. If you ever find yourself in Luanco, I'd highly recommend a visit. And then on Saturday evening we arrived back to Gijón just in time to go to dinner at a Galician restaurant with a group consisting of 5 Spaniards, 1 Scot, 2 Englishmen, 1 Frenchman, 2 Americans and a German. And no, that is not the opening line of a very long and convoluted joke. We ate various types of squid, drank Galician wine out of little bowls and fought valiantly against the multiple language barriers that we were up against. One thing led to another and we ended up going to various bars and dancing to Pulp and Florence and the Machine and I finally arrived home at 6am, absolutely knackered and more than ready to collapse into bed. Saturday was a good day. 

In about an hour I'm off to watch Barsa vs. Milan in a bar that offers the best free pinchos in town. Spain has definitely brought out the football fan in me. C'MON BARSAAAA. 

S'later!

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