Some bread with your fried breadcrumbs, sir?

I’ve had a couple of split examining days (some exams in the morning and then some more in the late afternoon and evening) and the day before last, I was chomping down on some local fayre outside the local cathedral (pictured), as you do, when this middle aged Kiwi woman with two kids (10 and 8) started talking to me. Turned out she’d been travelling with them and hadn’t spoken to an English speaking adult in 3 weeks. It’d just been the three of them. Anyhows, I suggested that if they wanted to meet up for a drink they could leave a message at my hotel. At this suggestion my arm was nearly bitten off (is that the right idiom?) and the conversation-starved Kiwi (Kendal with kids Jessie and Louis) arranged to meet up with me tonight. I’ve just come back from a two-hour drink with them and I feel like I’ve been verbally raped. The woman was keen just to talk to an adult and the kids were keen to simply talk to someone new. Lots of ‘active listening’ going on and very little chat from me. Lots of experiences and comparisons with Kiwi-land. The lady turned up at the hotel with a suggested itinerary for the next three days – it was lucky that I had the perfect excuse of a weekend visitor to attend to that meant I could remain free. However, I know where she’ll be for the next couple of evenings should my guest and I fancy meeting up for a drink. Good to chat, eh?
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But what of Zaragoza? It’s been four days know and I think I’m slipping into the way of things a little. The first problem to overcome was to order drinks in a way that didn’t make it seem like I had a big neon light flashing on my head which said “I don’t know what I’m doing. Please rob me”. Help in this area came from a teacher at the first school I was examining at. At the breaks she insisted on taking me to the local bar and giving me coffee over ice (coffee and sugar missed first and then poured over ice). Not a bad tipple, really. Seeing that I wasn’t averse to it, the teacher proceeded to drill me in my pronunciation of what to ask for “una cortardo con poco cafe con jello” (excuse any erroneous spelling and language use). So, after it’d been practiced a couple of times in a role play scenario I was ready to try it out in real life. Picture it if you will, there I was, strolling confidently through the throngs of local mullet haired youths and groups of children milling around the cathedral, ready to portray the image of the urbane young hombre about the plaza. The time had come. Sitting at an plaza-side cafe, I came out with my practiced phrase. It worked a treat. No hesitation from me or Mr Waiter and out came my desired drink. Magical. Must try and learn a bit more of this Spanish business.
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Heady from my success and still having an 1 ½ hours before I needed to be around for examining, I asked for the menu (also practiced) and ordered some local specialities (thanks Lonely Planet). I started with a rioja, opting for a glass rather than a bottle, and had some Aragon chorizo con patatas a la pobre – sausage and ‘pauper’s potatoes’. It ended up being egg, chips and sausage really (pictured). However, it was all cooked very well and the poached egg was poached perfectly - suitably runny in the yolk department. I followed up with another local speciality, ‘migas’, which translates as breadcrumbs. This was essentially a very large plate of fried breadcrumbs mixed with some bacon and topped with nine grapes. And when I saw a large plate, I mean exactly that. I kind of got the feeling that no-one else had ordered it for a while and they had a load going spare. Didn’t quite get to the end of that one, though.
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That’s it for now, but I will leave you with a picture of the transport Zaragoza’s finest. The cars’ design seems to be modelled on Noddy’s, but it’s a suitably jolly image for this provincial part of Spain where, to be honest, not a great deal goes on. They are, however, very proud of the 'sustainable development expo' that took place last year and are sure that I’d heard of it as it really “put Zaragoza on a map”. Which map they’re referring to, I couldn’t say, but maybe it’s one that you managed to pick up....

They think it's all over...

I write today’s missive with a sense of nostalgia and warmth, albeit a kind of deadly warmth and nostalgia you’re pleased to have left behind. I’ve just come back from the local pub where I witnessed Manchester United’s defeat to Barcelona, and while I feel a slight degree of sadness at United’s loss, I can’t deny the happy, jovial scenes on the streets outside – the gun shots (surely just fire crackers, although they are awfully loud), the police sirens, the car horns etc. – and, more interestingly, the feeling inside a bar while watching the local (relatively) team win. The atmosphere was buoyant and this buoyancy was fuelled by alcohol and by tobacco; the strange, heady scent of Marly reds, Winston’s and other high tar tobacco products that wafted around my head and which made me feel as though I were in the pubs of central London of years past – I was almost tempted to by a pack from the machine in the corner just for the hell of it. At only 2.80, it almost seemed like a shame not to.
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While drinking in the toxic fumes of my peers, the only thing to bring me to the present and my location in Spain was the rounded, half-pint glasses with which I was being served lager in. Still, I am on the continent after all. It’s only now that I’m back in my hotel room that I realise my clothes and hair smell lightly of tobacco from the fug at the bar – a not entirely unpleasant smell as the smoke wasn’t too dense and my lingering in it not too long. Still, good to be out of it, though. The one thing I can say about the game though, is that I thought the second goal was a bit messy... Sorry, couldn't resit that pun. I don't think it'll translate into Spanish.

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But what of examining? Here’s one exchange from yesterday:
Ben: Do you have any pets?
Candidate: When I was younger, I was a fish.
Ben: Really. You were a fish?
Candidate: Yes.

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This was at my first school (pictured) which had very well prepared candidates. Luckily, I only had to fail one, and as she had some rather questionable views on immigration I didn’t feel that it was a problem. Reminds me of a young teenager I had to knock down from an ‘A’ to a ‘B’ because he said Maradona was the best football player in the world. I mean, really. He was in an English exam with an English examiner...

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The school was located just outside the city which meant that I had the joy of riding back to the hotel on one of the school buses. Even though it was a semi-private school, I was surprised at how well the kids were behaved – I escaped the encounter with all my documents intact and a full head of hair, too. Not at all like the kids at ‘Bash Street’. I also got to share school meals for two days. They weren’t good, but when were they? Metal trays with potato slop and overcooked green beans (but green they were) and some meat of unknown provenance. Kept me going, though and the kids certainly seemed to thrive on it. However, in exams were the 2nd conditional was being used (‘If I were...., I’d....), several of the students were quite vehement about what they would do to the cooks and the food.
My examining room (pictured), was a dark and windowless office with some Disney pictures here and there and a crumpled union flag in the corner. Made me feel like a mole when I appeared out into the sun after a day’s examining. But it was very comfortable and there was air-con, too. Quite a posh place, obviously.

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The evening brought a foray into a tapas bar (pictured) and some very good rioja and cheesy snacks (fried hake in cheese, fried leeks in cheese and fired courgettes stuffed with potato and cheese). Along with the tapas, I was given a small bowl of peanuts to munch away on, which I duly did, collecting the shells and putting them neatly into a little pile on the side of the dish. When the bar eventually began to fill up (about 21:30), I saw others shelling the nuts and throwing the detritus on the floor (surruptiously pictured). Clearly I’ve still got a lot to learn about bar protocol - thank you, Paulette, for the comment / tips on throwing away serviettes and the business about the brandy - I'll try it when examining at IH Zaragoza on Friday. However, there has been a significant breakthrough on the drinking & dining form which I’ll regale you with in the next blog. Bet you can’t wait.

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Until then, I'll leave you with these wise words of natural science wisdom I learnt from one 14-year-old:

"There are three types of animal: farmyard, wild and acquatic". Don't forget, you heard it here first.

And so it begins...

Before I start off on the business about describing what I'm up to here in the northern reaches of Spain (Aragon and more precisely, Zaragoza - pronounced locally with 4 'th's), I'll tell you of the dilemma I faced yesterday morning. There I was, knowing I was flying BA to Madrid at 09:30 in the morning. No problem there - I'm a quick 30 mins from the airport so I didn't have to get up too early. No, it wasn't the earliness of the flight that was the problem per se, but what to drink on the flight. Drinking when flying is pretty much an essentail and anyone that's flown with me will know that the drink of choice is gin. If there's no gin, then there can't be a flight; but gin before 11 on a Sunday? Even I knew there was something wrong with that.
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It was in this stupor that I checked in and boarded my flight, not paying attention to my seat number and, in my morning daze, thinking the gate number (24b) was in fact my seat. Boarding the aircraft I was already to turn to the right down the aircraft (door was in the middle) when the beautiful stewardess (soon to become even more lovely) asked me to turn right up the aircraft. Mildly surprised, I did as I was told and moved up towards the front, realising my ticket was for 3a. Fine. Nothing interesting there. That is until I was handed a hot towel and none of the poor sorts behind me were. "Hang on," I thought, I'm in business class (or 'Club Europe' as BA would have it). Nice one - a pleasant surprise from the nice people at Trinity. Thanks very much.
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However, happy as I was reclining in my slightly roomier cabin, the dilemma of what to drink hit home even harder. How could I not have a gin when up front of the aircraft? It would be criminal waste, but yet it was still yet to strike 09:30. Thankfully I was alert and ready to take advantage of the situation, and it was this Nelsonian quick-wittedness that saved me in the end. Being in 'Club Europe' meant a hot breakfast (very nice sausage and eggs, bacon, some fruit, warmed rolls, etc) - still no avenue for gin there. But just as I was about to be served and the moment was on me, I saw a small bottle of vodka pass through the slim stewardess's silken hands to a rotund business traveller of unknown origin. 'That's it!' I suddenly realised, the logic of it all finally falling into place. What better to have. A cooked breakfast on a Sunday morning is simply crying out for a Bloody Mary, and no one cares about the hour. The realisation, although nearly late, proved to be inspired. And so it was that I was able to polish off the delightful breaky with an equally delightful Ms. B. Mary. I've got to say, the vodka certainly helped take the edge off the tomato juice, too.
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The rest of the flight went well and the 1/2 hour delay was barely noticed, as was the hour wait for luggage in Madrid, the venture to the wrong train station in Madrid (how foreign people in London manage with 6 or 7 over ground terminals is amazing - I messed up with just two) and a near missed train due to too long perusing terrapins in Madrid station. But here I am in Zaragoza. Here's a picture of the train I arrived on in Zaragoza's terribly modern-looking station. Looks rather like a bullet-train, don't you think? Certainly zips along, too. The hotel here is sound, although the decor is a bit on the brown and yellow side - strangely it's the style and not simply overly faded fittings.
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You may get some photos later on along with tales of examining (day one down and a couple of relative corkers already). Anyway, time to go out and get something to eat. I've only another 40 minutes before someone will open a shop at 8pm and I'll be the first to try and eat anything in all of Zaragoza. The sights and sounds of Spain's 3rd most polluted city (factoid learnt today) will be laid before you soon...