Tag: Languages

Laying down roots

Laying down roots

by Lemoní ♥ 3 Comments

I used to daydream about living abroad – of having sunglasses permanently fixed on top of my head and eating fresh watermelon for breakfast. But even when that daydream became a reality, it still never felt “real”.  

Until now. 

Because it’s only when you start to call somewhere home and erm, get yourself a mortgage (!) that you know you’ve taken more than a fanciful leap of faith.

As first-time buyers in any country, the process was never going to be easy. But taking the toro by the horns in a different language, well it has been an experience for sure. 

We celebrated our 3-year Spainversary surrounded by boxes in 37°C, arms heavy from the booster vaccine. (Note to self: never again move house during a heatwave).

Gathering up the last rogue sheets of plástico de burbujas (that’s bubble-wrap to you and me), which were blowing uncontrollably under the air-con, I took one last look around at our first Spanish home. 

The one where the smells of delicious lunches and sounds of siesta snores mixing in the courtyard gave us our first feel of local Spanish life. The one where we would greet our elderly neighbours on the stairs as they sauntered for an evening paseo in the park. And of course, the one where we spent an intense few months indoors under one of Europe’s strictest lockdowns…

In other words, the one we’ll never forget. 

Then, with the help of several sweaty friends, we loaded a van of our worldly treasures, stopping for frequent cold beer breaks. Driving across a city that we love, to a home that we own, with a bunch of super amigos, my smile was as wide as the sol.

Only 20 minutes away, our new piso is close to the airport, which gives me the feeling of being closer to HOME, as loco as that sounds. 

But of course, being your own landlord comes with new responsibilities. No sooner had we walked through the door did I fire up a YouTube tutorial about “How to maintain your air con”.

And as is always the case, teething problems presented themselves purposefully – just to test us. “Completely normal”, I was reassured by the more experienced veterans of moving-home. 

But I am happy to report that any out-dated stereotypes of the “mañana, mañana” attitude that Spaniards are unfairly labelled with were instantly broken, and any problems reported were fixed rápido.

I go around, picking out perfect places to showcase my collection of ceramics, which have been chosen with love from our travels across the country; an olive oil jug from a market in Sevilla, tile coasters from a rural Andalusian farmhouse selling the wares of local craftsmen, some outdoor pieces from the ceramic shops in the backstreets of Valencia. I go outside to our little balcony and measure up. 

Then I turn my attention to potting my lemon tree. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. 

Blessed with the morning sun, she is going to thrive. I read up on how to care for her and my olive tree, planted with elation the same day, whilst appreciating how much better that first coffee of the day tastes with the sun on my skin. 

And so, broken pleasantries with the neighbours exchanged and obligatory ‘new home’ announcement posted on the socials, we finally settle down to toast the next chapter with a chilled cava. 

The next chapter, which will see us (and our little citrussy shrub) continue to live and thrive in the Mediterranean sun. How could we be ready for the adventure to be over when it is only just beginning? 

And to those family and friends planning a visit, well… 
“Mi casa es tu casa”.

So, this is how it feels to lay down those roots. 

Contentment:

It’s not the destination…

It’s not the destination…

by Lemoní ♥ 1 Comment

…It’s the glory of the ride!

Just when I thought a change of direction was in order, here I am again, writing about the unavoidable topic of language. 

But it’s a theme that creeps into every single aspect of daily life. We (expats and locals alike) are always thinking about it, talking about it or experiencing it. Or at least it feels that way. 

This time, it was the daily commute that left me pondering.

Yes, I’m one of those still “lucky” (hmm) enough to leave the house every day for work. Mostly, I am super jealous leaving R in bed until 5 minutes before his 9am meeting starts. But when I step outside onto the streets slowly rousing into weekday life, I do feel lucky. It helps that those dark winter mornings seemed pretty short lived. 

When asked what he missed most about “the commute”, it wasn’t the congestion and torrential rain on the M80, unsurprisingly. Nor was it the walk to the bus stop in 40ºC, which saw his light blue shirt turn a few shades darker by the time he reached the office. It was the “bridge” between getting up and starting work, that separation between home and office.

My transport survey (conducted with my one semi-willing participant) also found that on balance, the 30-second transit between bed and desk was favoured overall and given the choice, he would never commute again!

For so many, it is a thing of the past, fin. That 2x daily, 10x weekly routine where the thought of a crammed underground, delayed train, traffic jam or fear of being knocked off your saddle brought on a daily dose of the dreads, has been replaced by a new way of working. 

After a few months of living carefree (see: unemployed) in Madrid, I longed for a commute. For somewhere to go every day, for routine. I was prepared to travel just for this experience but was lucky enough to land a job only 35 minutes from mi casa (roughly the same as my old one sin the connection at the infamous Glasgow Central low-level).

I don’t have a car so navigating the maze of narrow streets and impossibly tight parking spaces is one less stress. Instead, I have a range of cracking public transport options at my disposal. 

Being a super walkable and runner-friendly city, a home-bound commute on foot is my favourite at any time of year (except July and August when I am guaranteed to perish). 

Walking home late one night on the phone to my brother, he asked if it (I) was safe. I hadn’t given it a second thought. Notoriously late finishing times here mean that the streets are buzzing at this time of day, with shops still open and bar terraces packed at 10pm with most of Madrid out enjoying a post-work drink and tapa, under AC or heaters depending on the season, but never undeterred from enjoying life outdoors.

Alternatively, I would hop on the bus home on crisp winter nights, through the city centre to see the dazzling Christmas lights on Gran Vía. 

But overall, the Metro is my preferred choice to travel to work. It is reliable, quick and…interesting.

5 stops. Just enough time to listen to a language podcast or complete a few exercises on Duolingo. But when I take out the headphones and look up from my phone momentarily (careful to avoid eye contact with the busker belting out a Spanglish rendition of “Let it be” much too loud for this time in the mañana), then the real learning begins.

Tuning in to a snippet of conversation here or a phone call there, just picking up a few words without context (then making up the rest in my head)! 

Then there was the announcement. I must have heard it every day, but this was the first time I really listened. 

Every morning for a week, I tuned in: “¡Atención! Estación en curva…” 

It became an obsession. But try as I might, I just couldn’t piece it all together.

So, one day, I started typing it on my phone (super sad, or super smart, eh?)

“…al salir, tengan cuidado…” 

The next day, a little more: “…para no introducir el pie…” 

On the Friday morning, full of weekend anticipation and glee, I completed the sentence:

“¡Atención! Estación en curva, al salir, tengan cuidado para no introducir el pie entre coche y andén.” 

Roughly translated as: “take care when putting your foot between the train and platform”. We’ve all seen what happens to the wee stick man on the posters.

WHAT a sense of achievement to see it written down in the notes section of my phone, where it remains should I ever wish to quote a public transport announcement to my new amigos. Ha! It’s also a phrase loaded with juicy complex grammar, so that helps justify the ridiculous amount of time it took for me to nail it.

There and then I discovered that the commute is an opportunity for learning, for appreciating, for understanding society wherever you call home. 

It’s also a huge opportunity to feel involved in that society.

I was once told that you never feel truly settled until you live AND work somewhere. In the early days, I couldn’t understand this. Before I got a job here, I explored the city every day until my legs ached. I covered kilometres, getting my bearings and discovering things I would never have a chance to if I spent all day in la oficina.

But now I get it. Every day I meet new people, from all over the world. And I have colleagues who have been accommodating, helpful and lovely. It’s not the strangers on the street who tell you about the bra shop where they give out free cava with every fitting, or who invite you for weekends away to small towns in rural La Mancha (because that would be weird).

And every morning I get off the metro and walk for 15 minutes up Calle Serrano – the most prestigious street of barrio de Salamanca – with its tree lined streets, designer shops and glamourous people. One day I followed a pair of red soles past the Gucci shop where Cristiano Ronaldo and Georgina Rodríguez first locked eyes. Meanwhile, a homeless man with missing limbs sat outside playing ‘Despacito’ on the accordion. 

Understanding society is a work in progress. 

I got the commute, for which I’ll always be grateful. And while the destination may always be the same, it doesn’t have to be mundane. 

Do it right and you learn something new every single day. Do it wrong and it can change your mood quicker than when the postie leaves the wee red card without even trying your doorbell. Grr.

Learning aside, it’s also prime time for precious family catch-ups and lengthy voice notes to and from my bestest amigas.

Anyway, the next time you find yourself navigating a European underground transport network where the announcements are not translated, just remember…

Mind the gap.

(please)

Learning opportunity:

A healthy dose

A healthy dose

by Lemoní ♥ 1 Comment

Today marks my 30th blog post!

Thirty times over the past year, I have clicked ‘publish’ and shared one of my stories. And if you have been following my musings, you will know that the theme of my writing so far has been about languages and my own personal experience of learning Spanish. The reason for this is because it has reflected so much more of my journey since moving to Madrid, and I’ve never been short of material! Documenting the ups and downs of language learning has allowed me to draw parallels with other aspects of life here and made it possible to express myself as I have adapted.

Moving abroad to start the next chapter of life, and fulfilling a life-long dream in the process brought on a cascade of emotions. And they were mostly overwhelmingly positive ones, like when I first arrived and would get up every morning, open the shutters, have a coffee and feel the sun on my face. The small lifestyle changes have often had the biggest impact, and I still have to pinch myself most days.

But, as new and exciting as it all was, there was an initial period of adjustment, as I tried to get my bearings, make friends, find work and generally get “set up” (whilst trying to fathom the popularity of ‘shelf milk’ in the supermercado). Naturally, there was a feeling of vulnerability, which I now realise was not solely due to my inability to communicate with little more than a few basic words of the lingo.

Wondering if I would ever shake this feeling, I once read that when you live in another country “you will always feel a little uncomfortable”, but that this should be viewed as a good thing, because this is what you thrive off. The adrenaline not only keeps on your toes, but it keeps you excited, and striving!

The flustering, floundering, little-lost-sheep moments which I have described just became part of my normal daily life and while I still have them, they are fewer as I become more “established”. Because two years on, I do have my bearings, I have made friends AND found work. I have explored endlessly and learned deeply and whilst language has been the common thread weaving through all aspects of life here, it hasn’t been the only thing tying it all together.

This became apparent recently when the first symptoms of coronavirus started being spluttered around our apartment. With no outdoor space and the air-con circulating the germs on high power mode, I accepted my fate, “in sickness and in health” and all that! Even two doses of trusty AstraZeneca couldn’t protect me from the fifth wave which is sweeping across Spain as fiercely as the July heatwave.

We didn’t have a COVID “action plan” and suddenly faced with the reality of the situation, we started scouring the notoriously hard to navigate government websites for information on what to do next.

Times like these are when the familiarity of ‘how things work back home’ is sorely missed – you know where you stand with the NHS, for example. On more than occasion, I have woken in the night panicking that once again, I had forgotten the emergency number here in Spain (which is 112 for reference), and before drifting back into a deep and peaceful sleep, I have already imagined a range of scenarios where I might need to call. Is there is an option in English when you connect? Afortunadamente, I have never had to find out, but I am curious.

Anyway, the initial phone appointment from the doctor didn’t have me as flustered as expected. She was patient and calm and I didn’t feel feeble for not understanding one or two of her questions. Going for tests, receiving results, following quarantine instructions – the process was surprisingly slick and simple.

It was only later when I relayed the whole experience to my mum that she asked “…and that was all in Spanish”? Pues, sí. And that’s when it hit me that the last week of “survival” has not been about which language I have spoken.

Yes, the anticipated daily check-in calls from the medical centre have involved a bit of prep – like learning the vocab for all the síntomas experienced that day, and between cough, headache, fever, chills, sore throat, loss of taste and smell, there has been quite a lot to learn! Of course, I wasn’t able to fully express how I really felt, which would be like waking up after drinking a full barrel of Rioja Gran Reserva, which you couldn’t smell, or taste (what a waste) but which you thought might help to ease the heaviest head-cold you were already suffering from, since not even the ridiculously large and hard to swallow paracetamol was helping. Instead I told the doctor: “Tengo tos” (I have a cough), which was also true.

So, as you can see, I am not trying to claim to have become suddenly fluent! But, I have accepted that this way of communicating has just become a part of life. And with that realisation, I view these situations differently, like exciting challenges spicing up daily interactions instead of as an obstruction that slows the process of anything I try to do.

And with this important attitude shift, along with a little bit of isolation-reflection, I realised that this is no longer just the beginning; this is the 2-year checkpoint, the “look how far I have come”. My sense of achievement and personal growth has been worth every moment of sweaty-palmed discomfort, but with so much of this amazing city and country still to enjoy, maybe it is time to stop overthinking verb tables and pronunciation techniques.

So, what will I write about instead? It is possible that this might be some sort of mad, rambling epiphany brought about by the virus or the heat (it is very hot), so I don’t feel best placed to make any commitments right now, but rest assured that any funny moments, flounders and fails won’t go unreported.

I hope it has been entertaining. It has been for me! Not only have I made myself laugh with some of my antics, but I have provided myself with some cracking writing material, whilst discovering a passion for language that was right under my nose the whole time. Behind the scenes, I will still be working hard on my progress because I still have goals. In the short-term, our first Spanish wedding of some wonderful friends, and the much-anticipated arrival of visitors for the first time since 2019, and in the long term, well, there are countless important linguistic milestones still to hit. But all with one key difference – sin pressure. From here, it will be one podcast, one language class, one Netflix show, one Penelope Cruz film, and one chapter of the grammar textbook at a time.

Furthermore, I hope you will try it. I encourage you to download the Duolingo app or listen to a Coffee Break languages podcast or watch a film with subtitles or tune into someone’s conversation the next time you are travelling. I hope you will embrace the dialects of your own country or learn more about the structure of English. Listen to the national anthems of other countries being sung with as much gusto as the Italians at the Euros or read aloud the Gaelic on road signs as you staycation in Scotland, or spot how many ridiculous metaphors Boris can use in one speech. Because it is captivating (not the Boris bit). And above all, be sympathetic and encouraging towards English language learners.

Mil gracias for coming on my journey so far, a journey which is faaar from over. And I hope you will come with me as I skip off down a different path through the lemon grove, in search of fresh content. And with inspiration in plentiful supply, I will continue to thrive and grow, embracing this dream come true as though mi vida depends on it!

Progress:

Refreshing retreat

Refreshing retreat

by Lemoní ♥ 1 Comment



Ah, the joy of travelling again. Travelling to holiday-type destinations that could only once be reached after a few hours at the airport and a few more in the sky, but can now be reached leisurely by train– and an extra speedy one at that. It’s a novelty, and one which I feel very grateful for.

Hopping on the high-speed AVE from Madrid Atocha station at 09:40 on a Friday morning, with a coffee and croissant in hand (consumed sneakily behind the mascarilla once on board) – it was all very civilised. I had overloaded my bag with reading material to pass the 1 hour 40-minute journey including three books about Spain and the latest National Geographic travel mag, featuring Spain on the cover. To fellow passengers, it must have looked like I had just touched down in the country for the first time and was frantically trying to cram everything there was to know, but really, I was just so excited at the prospect of exploring again so a refresher of all there was to see, do, eat, drink and visit wouldn’t do any harm!

Just as I was deciding which to start first, the film “The Witches” started showing on the small screens suspended from the roof. I loved that film as a child and now I was torn between watching for nostalgia (but with the added “complication” of Spanish subtitles), working through my selection of “must-reads” or staring mindlessly out of the window at the fields and fincas whizzing past, as we sped from the heart of Spain to edge at a rápido 300 kmph.

I chose the latter. With each kilometre that passed, the anticipation was building as we got closer to the famous coastline, visited and loved by so many, and closer to the real holiday I craved, having not left Madrid for almost one year.

Note that none of my entertainment options were tailored towards brushing up on my Valenciano…

The community of Valencia, including the city itself and nearby Alicante and Castellon, share this unique language as their mother tongue. Spanish comes secondary on all notices and announcements, followed by French or English. I was secretly dreading exposure to another language so “soon” into my own linguistic journey. Of course, there was no pressure to learn this regional idioma and I gently reminded myself that every trip I make within this diverse country is not primarily for language practice. There are as many important cultural and historical things to absorb which are just as relevant for sense of belonging and sometimes, something as simple as ordering a coffee and watching the world go by is enough of an achievement for one day.

Valencia (meaning valant or brave) was originally a swamp before the Romans transformed it into a retirement town for their soldiers. With the ruins still visible to this day, it is easy to get lost in the romance of the past. And while I don’t imagine that I work quite as hard, or voraciously as the Romans, I couldn’t think of a better place to wind down in later life. I can see why the Azahar coast features so frequently on “Place in the Sun” as likeminded people search for somewhere to settle, surrounded by sparkling seas and year-round sunshine.

So, it was hard to ignore the looming grey skies as the train approached Valencia. ¡Qué mala suerte! I thought I was escaping the thunderstorms expected in Madrid this weekend but at least here, when the clouds clear, a frescito sea breeze will replace the hot, sticky air that had started to dominate the capital every day since June arrived.

With skies grey or blue, I thought Valencia was beautiful regardless (much like my beloved Scotland)! On Saturday morning, families gathered on the steps of many of the city’s blue-domed churches and cathedrals, deciding where to take el aperitivo after celebrating the holy communion of wee María or Manuel. Several bells rang out in unison at 12 o’clock, and as a result of poor-planning, this coincided with exact moment that I was half-way up a bell-tower (of all things). Following recommendations, I was scaling the narrow stone steps in anticipation of the famous view across the rooftops and my first sighting of the sea but I ended up closer to the bottom than the top after that scare!

Except for one or two orange trees which I was quick to photograph for the ‘gram, it wasn’t the right time of year to see the city in all its scented glory. But, *top tip* lining the streets at Christmas time will be branches bulging with bright oranges, ready to be collected for juicing. The holy trinity of a Spanish breakfast wouldn’t be complete without the freshly squeezed OJ enjoyed alongside a café and tostada or something sweet – which I have come to appreciate for its simplicity.

Leaving Valencia behind but vowing to return soon, we travelled on up the coast to the beautiful “rock” of Peñíscola or Peniscola (depending on your Valenciano, Español, or maturity level).

Featuring in ‘Game of Thrones’ (season 6 apparently), the XIII castle dominated the view from every direction. It resembled a Greek Island with its white-washed walls, cobbled streets and crystal-clear water and the significant lack of tourists enhanced the feeling of isolation. I quickly got carried away with the idea of snapping up a holiday rental or better still, a writing retreat to escape to on weekends.

There was something about being by the sea again, the calming influence of the waves and the beauty of the quiet life that had me lingering outside every estate-agent window for a little daydream. Best of all, it was only a few hours from “home”.

While the return train journey was spent dreaming up the next adventure, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that that returning to Madrid did feel like returning home. Not in the comfy, nostalgic, heart-burstingly proud way that the feeling of returning home to Scotland evokes, but arriving back to 30°C and a summer buzz in the city quickly eliminated any trace of holiday blues!

I was glad of the reminder of how accessible this beautiful country was becoming once again, and under these unique and temporary circumstances, I was excited at the prospect of discovering the undiscovered and having it all to ourselves. Ok, I was also just as excited to share it again, when the time comes!

There is still so much left to see and do and I told myself again that there is no time limit to this great adventure. So, while the search for the dream writing retreat continues, the inspiration is ever-present.

Realistically, how much writing (or studying Español) would really get done with that distracting view of the sparkling turquoise Med, the glorious sunshine, lengthy lunch breaks, sleepy siestas, and crisp white wine disrupting the creative flow…

Maybe it’s safer to stay put.

At least for now!
 
 Dreams:
 

Cultivation

Cultivation

by Lemoní ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

The cultivation of a new skill is a process – a long, difficult, beautiful process – which is worth the short term (ahem) effort for the long term gains…

…I kindly reminded myself after a particularly stressful encounter at work left me suffering from a familiar bout of self-doubt.

A telephone call for what should have been a simple appointment cancellation left me confused when the (non Spanish) lady on the other end of the line launched into a full-blown telenovela in rápido Español. Identifying the words for “dog”, “kids” and “confinement”, I tried desperately to navigate around the unnecessary details she was bombarding me with, wishing that she would cut to the chase to ensure I understood the main purpose of the call (which was, as suspected, to cancel an appointment).

But before I had time to react, she suddenly switched languages and said (and I’m sure I detected a sigh): “You’re the one who only speaks English right?”

I was outraged.

It wasn’t even strictly true (although, in comparison to my polyglot colleagues then I suppose that narrows it down).To her, it was a simple observation which helped her distinguish between the staff, but it struck a nerve.

Because, this is how you are defined in an international workplace – by the languages you speak, not by the ones you are trying desperately hard to learn.

What she failed to see was the effort being put in behind the scenes to promote me from the “unilingual” category she had placed me in. Somewhere out-with the 40 hour working week, the maintenance of an exercise regime, a social life and a home, between regular and precious contact with family and friends, and the writing of a blog *pauses for breath*, there are the weekly Spanish classes, the attendance of intercambio events, the meetings with native friends, the stressful encounters AND the complicated phone calls to contend with…But this didn’t enter her radar – why would it?

“Ha” I answered, wondering if she herself had emerged from the womb fluent in four idiomas.

But why was I so offended? She was proud of her own linguistic achievements (and deservingly so), as I would be too. Correction: I WILL be too, only I vow to be sympathetic to the efforts of others.

Thoughts that it might be easier just to give up and accept that I have tried but I will never be Spanish and never sound Spanish enter my head frequently. Except this time, I spiralled.

Evidently affected by the remark, I made a quick life assessment, and decided that if I only had a time short time left in this world, the first to be culled from my list of hobbies and pastimes would probably be the learning of Spanish, which is ironic considering the blood, sweat and tears I have poured in so far. But I imagine that being bi-lingual has more use in life than it has beyond the grave…

At the end of the day, what you are left with are experiences and memories. One day, I will remember this beautiful chapter of life, not by the hours spent with my nose in a grammar textbook, but by the quality of life here, made richer only by the effort invested into the adoption of a new culture, the making of friends, the willingness to try new things, and of course, the learning of the language.

Despite having made a choice to dedicate hours, days, years to the latter in order to make life in another country easier, the process requires work. And while it may be 10 years before I allow myself to relax in the sun with a foreign language book (sin highlighter pen) and a celebratory cava, I know it will be worth it.

Because by then, the skill that I will have been cultivating over time will be practised and polished but probably never perfect. And it won’t even matter, not when I will be able to effortlessly navigate my way around the complex bureaucratic system, defend myself if and when required (an important linguistic milestone I am told) and chat freely and fluently with locals.

So, on the days that I confuse my tenses or ignorantly use a ‘n’ instead of an ‘ñ’, I will kindly remind myself that it is not a matter of life or death, and the things I stress about or think are so important have some fresh perspective once more.

One year on, despite writing with a strong focus on my language learning journey, this blog has been more than that. It is a documentation of experiences of life here in España so far – a different kind of cultivation – not just of a new skill, but of memories that have been created, collected and captured. Using the highs and lows of learning a language to mirror the highs and lows of learning a whole new lifestyle is the truest reflection I can offer.

But as long as I am living here in Spain (or living full stop), then I had better crack on.

Because if I stand any chance of shedding the undesirable reputation of being “the one who only speaks English” and impressing my multilingual European associates, then I had better start ripening PRONTO.

Determination:

Address to a…lemon

Address to a…lemon

by Lemoní ♥ 4 Comments

In the late 1700’s, Robert Burns, the man who was later to become Scotland’s most celebrated national figure was in his prime.

He was busy working the land, seducing women, and most importantly, writing. Inspired by anything and everything, his poems and songs, packed with action, romance, charm, and humour are still internationally recognised to this day.

The annual ‘Burns Supper’ is held to acknowledge and celebrate our beloved Bard – usually on whichever Friday falls closest to his birthday (not death) – the 25th of January – presumably because consuming that much whiskey on a school night is even too much for any hardy Scot.

I recently tried to describe the event to international friends here, but it soon became apparent that the unique traditions that form the itinerary were hard to explain. You have to experience it for yourself. And even then, it only really makes sense if you grew up to learn and dread (and then love) the expressive, transfixing poetry recitals, romantic ballads, the spine-tingling shrill of bagpipes, the traditional dancing, the swishing kilts and of course, the haggis.

Enjoying the event is easy, but understanding it is another. And that, I think, is because of the language.

Robert Burns transformed the way many thought about the Scots language, which became widely used and more importantly, proudly spoken across the country. Some say that it was our pride in Burns that gave us the pride to talk in a dialect that was once perceived as “inferior” English.

Thanks to our annual celebration of Burns, the Scots language has been not only preserved, but has influenced generations of writers, poets and songwriters.

As children, we were exposed to it every year, when schools in every region of the country encouraged (or forced) their pupils to recite these poems in “Burns competitions” run by the Robert Burns World Federation or some such entity. Some kids had a flair for it, revelling in the performance. Others (like me) used to dread it and certainly won no medals for my pronunciation of “beastie” and “breastie”.

But even if Scots poetry recitals didn’t make it into your school curriculum, you will surely have linked arms with friends (or strangers) and swayed along to a rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on some occasion or other, like many others across the globe. You may have even sang along, for the chorus at least. And never have the words held more significance than they do now (translated English version available online).

This year, I celebrated our national Bard virtually, with family all over the UK. In-keeping with the traditional running order of a Burns Supper, we all had a part to play. In turn, we recited, sang, and even jigged, while I watched on in envy as everyone else tucked into plates of haggis, neeps and tatties.

I was asked to read a little something from the perspective of being “A Scot abroad”, which was a great opportunity to express how it really did feel to be far from home, on a day when our beloved Scotland is at the forefront of our minds, and hearts.

So, I channelled my inner Rabbie and scribbled a few lines. And while I think my career as a poet may be short-lived, I can proudly say that I belong to yet another generation of Scots, who continue to celebrate the young, influential writer who, in his 37 years of life produced nearly as many songs and verse as he did children – some 500 (only a mild exaggeration) and who, essentially just wanted to give up the day job to write…

And so, I will leave you with these badly rhymed words which still wouldn’t win me any school poetry competitions, but which I shared with my family as we raised our glasses more than once across the miles for a good-hearted and wholesome celebration at a time when “…seas between us braid hae roar’d”:

It’s not the haggis that I miss,

Or the annual recital of ‘Ae Fond Kiss’

‘Burns Day’ at school I used to hate,

The Scots language fussy and out of date.

But now I have a new appreciation,

For the language that influenced our nation.

The way they thought, and felt and spoke,

And for the emotions Burns work can still evoke.

Here, they don’t know the words we speak,

Or about the haggis they think we always eat 

But while our accents may be hard to understand,

They are in awe of our ancient, mystical land.

“Oye! Just like ‘Outlander’”, they say,

I suppose it is, in a way.

There are hills and castles, and glens full of heather,

Whiskey, kilts and really shite weather.

It’s true, I know what you’re thinking,

We’re also renowned for deep fried mars bars and heavy drinking.

This country where we are so proud to be born,

Where our national animal is a unicorn…

And time may have taken us away for a while,

To try new things and a different lifestyle.

It doesn’t mean we love Scotland any less,

Calling it home makes us very blessed.

Even Burns had a brief plan to leave,

Which would surely have made the nation grieve.

The prospect was exciting and a little scary,

But he popped the question to Highland Mary,

Eager to escape or keen to explore, he said:

“Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary and leave auld Scotia’s shore?” 

(Which is not dissimilar to what Russell said to me,

When he secured the job at ING)

It could have been morality that made Burns stay,

Or the fact that he had 3 bairns on the way.

2 by his wife, and one by his maid

In the end, he never set sail for the Jamaican slave trade…

But I wonder what works he would have produced,

Or how many more lassies he would have seduced…

No matter how much of the world you choose to roam,

Scotland stays in the heart and will always be home.

This year, we’ve swapped haggis for chorizo and whiskey for wine,

But seeing you all is affa fine.

Kenny has brought us all together,

For tradition and music, a laugh, and a blether.

And to celebrate Burns across the miles,

After a tough year of tribulations and trials.

And we may not know his work by heart,

But we’ve all been able to do our part.

So, here’s to family, health, good times old & new,

To Scots at home, and Scots abroad too.

Language appreciation:

Main squeeze

Main squeeze

by Lemoní ♥ 4 Comments

Sharing your dreams with someone is one thing, but sharing the same dream is another.

The dream of moving abroad, to start a new life, embrace a new culture and experience new things was a shared dream, resting in the pipeline until the time was right for it to be lived.

Equally, sharing your goals with someone is one thing, but sharing the same goal is something else.

And as fate would have it, R and I now share a very important goal.

We both have to learn Spanish. Juntos.

It’s funny, because when we first started learning languages – we were learning different ones.

But with our shared dream unleashed, and a move to Spain on the horizon, our goals aligned. As much as it is oh so important, and healthy, to have your own interests and hobbies, there is something very special about having a shared vision, a shared goal. A shared experience.

Fluency was the shared goal. But it is over-rated, apparently. What does it even mean to be “fluent”?

I have lost count of how many times I have been asked “Are you fluent yet”? It sounds simple, but it is far from.

We will never be native, so will we ever be “fluent”? Maybe. But it will take years, and years (and years and years…)  

So, in our bid to strive for the next best thing, we find ourselves on an interesting, fun and at times, challenging journey. One where we celebrate our successes (like making a phone call sin-stutter) and feel on top of the world putting our new life skills into practice.

Other times, we despair, wondering if we will ever get to where we want to be and achieve that anticipated “fluency” status.

We each have our strengths, and our weaknesses. We both have off days, and we probably always will. After a long week of work, having to study, or speak in a different language requires effort. But it is so rewarding to see the progress, in ourselves and in each other.

We have gone from sharing a few words to full sentences, and even brief conversations. We speak “comfortably” in the house, able to communicate basic emotions and answer the all-important “How was your day”?

We help to fill in each other’s gaps, but there is un problema with this. The risk of two non-natives learning together is… How do we know if either of us are right?!

As I said, there are challenges, and frustrations, and changing dynamics. When did this unintentional teacher/student relationship develop?! But for every annoying correction (otherwise known as constructive criticism), and forced hour of “let’s only talk in Spanish” there are plenty of laughs, with “Why did I say that?!” or “Guess what happened today” kick-starting most conversations.

We’ve both made some pretty hilarious mistakes after all, and there is something precious about debriefing over them together, or with friends in the same situation.

We want to see each other thrive (after all, it’s much easier to have someone to fall back on when you trip over your words or have a complete blank in public)!

Just like a relationship, it is important is to keep things fresh and interesting. So, whichever way we chose to learn on any given day, we try to make it fun, whether that involves practising in the park with a picnic in the sun (incomplete without some ice-cold cervezas), learning songs, or binge-watching Spanish shows on Netflix…

Last week however, we took it a step further. Invited along by some friends, we spent a Saturday evening side-stepping and swaying our way through a beginners Bachata dance class, following instructions solo en español.

I sold the idea to R as a spontaneous new experience with an underlying language learning opportunity. I was quietly confident after my previous dance “ordeal” and suddenly, standing vulnerable in front of a huge mirror and a whole class of people seemed a lot less daunting than it did last year. I knew I would at least understand something this time round!

And it was fantástico! Not only did we understand most of the class, but we learnt a few moves too. While some refer to this Dominican dance as “sensual salsa”, R described it as “the Gay Gordons ‘with hips’” (those of you familiar with traditional Scottish country dancing will appreciate that soft rhythmic hip movements are not a key feature of this Ceilidh favourite)!  

With my main squeeze by my side, we will practise the basic steps of language learning, each taking turns to lead.

We will trip over our feet and make mistakes more toe-curling than hip-swirling, but hopefully we will advance to more complex moves one day, towards the grande finale of “fluency…”

Learning together, learning always.

Sharing your dreams with someone is one thing, but sharing the same dream is another.

Progress:

Tolerance:

Lemon-aid

Lemon-aid

by Lemoní ♥ 1 Comment

Recently, I made a very special discovery here in Madrid. Hidden away in the streets of the hip and happening barrio of Malasaña is a bookshop that sells English books. What a treat! I was due a couple of new reads to enjoy in the last of the late summer sun.

I browsed for ages, and was tempted by many, but despite my excitement at finding a treasure trove of texts in English, I found myself drawn to the single shelf of Spanish books. Tucked away amongst the used language textbooks and lengthy classics, was a pocket-size version of “El coronel no tiene quien le escriba” (“No-one writes to the colonel”), a short story by Gabriel García Márquez, of whose translated novellas, I am a big fan.

Reading fluently in Español is a dream, and I skipped off, happy with my 95-page miniature paperback having decided it would be perfecto to practise, yet small enough not to scare me off before I had even started…

So, I settled myself on a shady bench, opened the book and to my joy, discovered that some thoughtful person had already done some of the hard work for me!

There was page after page of legible pencil scribbles, and any unknown words had been circled and translated. I considered verifying but decided to take their word for it. After all, what did we do before the days of Google translate and handy language apps?!

With the turn of every page, I started to feel connected to the mystery translator and wanted to know more…

Who were you? Were you the first owner of the book, or the tenth? What were your reasons for learning Spanish? Did you move to Spain like me? Were you a fan of García Márquez too or were you simply attracted by the manageable size of this book?

I was getting so carried away creating a persona for them, that I was becoming distracted from the task at hand – which was to successfully read (and understand) this short story!

But there was a problem. As I advanced through the chapters, the notes became scarcer. There were less circled words, and if there were, the translations had been abandoned.

Then, half-way through the book, they stopped altogether, and all trace of the secret scribbler was gone!

This could only mean one of two things. Either they GAVE UP or they achieved fluency so quickly that they no longer had any need to scrawl their useful notes across the pages. (I like to think it was the latter – it gives me more hope.) Maybe it was only when they achieved this level of understanding (or gave up), and no longer had any use for their copy, did they give it away.

Determined to continue this project alone, I now carry my little edition with me wherever I go, reading a few pages (or as much as my brain will allow) in the park, on the metro or wherever I happen to be when the notion takes.

And I will take my time, knowing that when I finish, I will read it again. I will read it until I no longer have to trace my finger along each line, stopping to gather context like a first-time reader.

I will read it until I understand every word, every verb tense, every idiom.

I will then read it out loud. And then I will read it until my pronunciation is correct.

I will continue what was started by adding my own notes, and maybe even a small message of encouragement. And only then I will return it to the bookshop in hope that another fortunate language learner will stumble upon this hidden treasure and I can only hope their excitement is as great as mine when they flick through the pages to discover that others lent a helping hand towards their learning efforts.

We have a shared experience, my language-aid and me. Without even knowing it, they helped me learn by providing translations of obscure vocab I’m confident I will never need, like that for ‘cooking stove’, ‘lilies’, ‘haste’ and ‘bile’.

But these notes and scribbles help me stay motivated with every turn of the page and therefore have made my first attempt at reading a foreign text a little bit more interesting.

Most importantly, they helped me to feel like I wasn’t alone in this journey.

So, gracias mi amigo, whoever you are.

Let the circle of language learning continue…

Progress:

Hydration station

Hydration station

by Lemoní ♥ 3 Comments

The last run I set off on before moving to Spain was on a cold, wet morning in May. I jogged around a country park in the south side of Glasgow, and as I was running, I made a special effort to take it all in. I absorbed the sights, the sounds and smells I was so used to – of the woodland, the birds, the cool, damp air, and the muddy terrain underfoot.

Knowing it would be the last time in a long time that I would run in these familiar conditions, I remember thinking things like “I wonder if they have trees like this in Madrid”, “Will I ever run in the rain in Spain?”  and most importantly – “Will it be too hot?”

I had never enjoyed running in the heat, it felt punishing and unnecessary. In Scotland, running is the last thing on our minds when the sun comes out. Instead we go to a beer garden to enjoy a refreshment or head to the coast to bask in the rarity of sunshine.

Even though I had committed to a commute-on-foot from work, I was only faced with a couple of hot July days, when I would struggle home, red-faced and sweating. But the version of heat I knew then was significantly cooler than I know now. Even 18°C was considered much too hot for such vigorous exercise!

So, it was months before I plucked up the courage to go running here in Madrid. My first few attempts were a struggle but, timing is everything in the summer months and I have learnt to pick my moments. Heading out early in the morning when there is still a “chill” in the air or late in the evening when the sun disappears behind the mountains is prime time. It is not uncommon for me to be panting my way around the local parque at 9pm (wondering how it could possibly still be 30°C).

For me, running brings clarity. That’s why I find pounding the pavements a perfect time to practise Español. It’s the only time I seem to remember key phrases and can have semi-fluent but random conversations with myself. Even my pronunciation sounds muy bien (in my head at least).

Other times I count to 100 or just listen to a bit of Shakira – anything to distract from the heat!

In Madrid, it’s not just the heat to contend with, but altitude too. These conditions have got me thinking like an athlete. Mo Farah famously trained at altitude (albeit 1,800m higher than here). And I’ve even considered investing in some skimpy pants and wraparound sunglasses como Paula Radcliffe, but I fear this puts me at risk of becoming the female running equivalent of a “MAMIL” (middle-aged man in Lycra).

Inspired, and once confident that I wouldn’t faint from dizziness or die from dehydration, I started to feel invincible (of course remembering to drink water and replenish with some mean home-made electrolyte drinks after track sessions helped).

I developed a strong admiration for people who exercise in the heat, and this was when I heard about the Marathon des Sables!

A challenge of insane proportions. In short, it involves running 250km across the Sahara Desert, over 7 days (day 4 is a DOUBLE MARATHON), carrying all your own equipment and water supplies. The physical and mental barriers to overcome must be extreme, but I do wonder if the toughest part could be the heat? I mean, it is the Sahara Desert. 

And it’s the original toughest footrace on earth, but I encourage anyone to watch the Barkley Marathons on Netflix to see what stole the crown…

(Spoiler: I did not even consider let alone sign up for this challenge. It simply changed my perspective on the running “extremities” I thought I was facing)!

Just imagine setting yourself a challenge so great and sharing that experience with people from all over the world, camping out under the stars, exhausted after long hard days of scaling sand dunes, and communicating only through runner’s language.

It is a language where often no words are needed (usually due to shortness of breath)! Emotions are evident on a runner’s face – pain, struggle, and sometimes even joy! Injuries can be signalled to, and times can be compared by pointing at your watch.

Most importantly though, displays of encouragement and support don’t need words. It takes no words to give a reassuring thumbs-up, high-five or pat on the back. And I’m sure none are needed to take someone’s hand and drag them up a sand dune…

The Marathon des Sables seems not only to be a challenge of survival, but of companionship and connection too, regardless of language. Maybe this is part of the reason why so many loco people head into the desert each year.

Just thinking about it makes me long for a refreshing run in the rain – the type where you have to relentlessly blink the water out of your eyes to see, trainers heavy from splashing through puddles, and soaked to the skin (but somehow manage to return home without breaking a sweat). It used to take a lot of mental preparation to venture out in the first place when the alternative was a cup of tea on the sofa, but there is not better feeling than having pushed yourself out there. Well, except for the hot shower afterwards!

It can take just as much mental prep to head out for a run in the sun. Except now, it is sweat I blink from my eyes, and the clothes I peel off are just as wet. This time though, the best part is the cold shower!

The next time I have to psyche myself up, I will remind myself that I am not navigating the desert with rationed access to agua, carrying 8kg on my back and don’t need a doctor to deal with my unsalvageable blistered feet, while the hot sand burns my legs.

Nowadays, I live closer to that very desert than I do to the piney forests and damp woodland trails of home.

And although it is hot, I don’t have to get up and do it all over again tomorrow.

But, with all those open, endless days of running and all that clarity it would bring, just imagine how good my Spanish would be…

Language clarity:

Cloudy lemonade

Cloudy lemonade

by Lemoní ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Wanting to learn a language and needing to learn a language are two different things. There is an urgency attached to the latter that adds just the right amount of pressure to the whole learning experience. But no matter how much time and effort you invest, there are still situations you will be unprepared for. One such situation brought that to light for me recently…

We were taking an internal flight from Bilbao, returning to Madrid and had been in the air for less than 10 minutes when we heard “This is your captain speaking”, which is not something you normally expect on such a short journey.

Listening intently, I understood we were facing “tormentas” (storms) and that the outlook was not looking good at our destination. Blame it on the cabin pressure, the nervous chatter amongst my fellow passengers or just the fact that I haven’t covered the topic of ‘emergency aeroplane announcements’ in my Spanish lessons, but it was impossible for me to follow el piloto’s every word.

We had just left the North which is almost as notorious for its wet weather as the UK and we were aware of forecasted thunderstorms so, a bit of turbulence was to be expected. But this was more than just a bit of turbulence. This was the type that made me check that there was still a sickness bag to hand even though everything else in the seat pocket had been removed for fear of contamination. And when he repeated the word “tranquilo” (calm), I gathered that this was an instruction rather than a description of the weather…

We continued bumping through the clouds when suddenly, the plane lurched. I felt my stomach drop and people screamed and began crossing themselves.

Is this how it ends? I looked to the emergency exit row, two in front of me. A groomed man in pressed chinos and velvet Aladdin slippers (who had had to be reminded to fasten his seat belt before take-off) finally removed his headphones and glanced around with a look of terror, wishing he had paid attention to the safety announcements.

I don’t know what scared me more – not being able to understand everything being said or realising that this ignorant cabrón would ultimately be in charge of our fate if things took a turn.

Note: I, myself had paid extra special attention to the cabin crew safety demonstration since the linguistic geek within me was taking advantage of every opportunity to learn. And sí, I may have relied heavily on gestures to comprehend, but I was confident that I was in a better position to handle safety procedures than him. At least I knew we were on an aeroplane and not a flying carpet…

For at least 10 minutes, the pilot spoke, his calm tone unwavering throughout. He could have been talking about football or what he ate for lunch for all we cared because regardless of what he said, his technique of reassurance worked, and the fear subsided long before the turbulence. He stayed with us, and only when satisfied that all was ok, did he bid us adios, and the plane erupted in applause.

I joined in, grateful for this man who had foreseen the fear and had taken the time to instil calm amongst the passengers, who were already tense and nervous from travelling in these uncertain times.

There was no further announcement in English, but I understood enough from the little I could translate and from the admiration in the eyes of those around me.

Things calmed down and the crew began their preparations for landing. Once again, Señor Responsable in the emergency exit row had to be asked more than once to stow his Louis Vuitton man-bag to clear the area…

When the plane touched down in Madrid, we were all a little surprised to see that the sun was shining, the sky was clear and there was little more than a light breeze on the runway.

The memory of the incident in the sky seemed to fade as quickly as clouds, but it got me thinking…

It’s all very well knowing enough Español to be able to order food in a restaurant or exchange pleasantries with a neighbour, but what about times like this?

One day, someone might ask me for help, instead of for the time. Or the next time I fly en avión I might get seated in the emergency exit row and will be the one entrusted with understanding safety announcements to protect the lives of others.

And so, I must be prepared.

(I have also made a mental note never to trust a man who travels in velvet slippers).

Experience:

Language success: