st level) and said my little phrase but nothing happened, so I waved and said goodbye again. The little 7-year-old, let’s call him Manuel, looked confused and waved back at me. To hammer home the point that the exam had finished and that eh should leave. I ‘beeped’ my stopwatch and repeated that we were finished, said goodbye and gestured to the door. Little Manuel continued to look confused, waved at me again and them pointed to the door. Nothing was happening, so I got up and opened the door and gestured for him to go outside, which he duly did. Sitting back at my desk, I allowed a wry smile to creep across my face at the incident. However, the smile nearly turned into a laugh when I say little Manuel come back into the room and sit down, somehow thinking that I just wanted him to stand outside for a bit. Foolishly repeating ‘We’re finished. Go!” to know avail, I tried the Spanish for ‘finish’, but I didn’t know it, so tried ‘finito’ instead. That didn’t work either. Poor little Manuel was really starting to look worried know as I tried not to laugh. It took another trip to the door and pointing for him to go to his teacher before he finally got the point. Poor lad. *
Unfortunately, not all experiences are as jolly as that. Regular readers may remember that last Friday I was being picked up to stay at a hotel, actually named a casa, somewhere out of Huesca. Well, hotel it wasn’t and casa it was – the owner of the school (in Sarinena) had converted the top floor of his house into a holiday apartment, and it was there I was locked in for the night. I say locked in because the guy’s father (who helped complete a rather convincing, yet cleaner, ‘Steptoe and Son’ double act – they kept bickering while showing me how to turn the light to the room on) had locked up by 11 o’clock, just when I’d arrived. Not that this was a problem because the place I’d been driven to was a village of 400 people and there was essentially nothing outside.
Unfortunately, not all experiences are as jolly as that. Regular readers may remember that last Friday I was being picked up to stay at a hotel, actually named a casa, somewhere out of Huesca. Well, hotel it wasn’t and casa it was – the owner of the school (in Sarinena) had converted the top floor of his house into a holiday apartment, and it was there I was locked in for the night. I say locked in because the guy’s father (who helped complete a rather convincing, yet cleaner, ‘Steptoe and Son’ double act – they kept bickering while showing me how to turn the light to the room on) had locked up by 11 o’clock, just when I’d arrived. Not that this was a problem because the place I’d been driven to was a village of 400 people and there was essentially nothing outside.
*
The journey to Villanueva de Sigena (birth place of the physician Miguel Servet, who was the first European to describe the pulmonary system, and who wisely left the place for Geneva at his earliest opportunity) was scheduled because I was supposed to be closer to the centre I was examining at on the Saturday morning. Unfortunately, the village was alm
ost as far away from the town I was examining in (we passed through it to get to the casa) as the place I was in previously, but had the added bonus of being nowhere with no food or drink to be had - breakfast was a 07:30 15-km drive back to Sarinena to a roadside cafe for a stale croissant and a coffee. The only purpose for the trip seemed to be for the fawning owner of the casa, who himself owned the academy I was examining at, to make a quick buck by charging for a night’s accommodation. Here's a picture of me at computer with water. Good to carry that stuff around. Life blood, don't you know?
The journey to Villanueva de Sigena (birth place of the physician Miguel Servet, who was the first European to describe the pulmonary system, and who wisely left the place for Geneva at his earliest opportunity) was scheduled because I was supposed to be closer to the centre I was examining at on the Saturday morning. Unfortunately, the village was alm
ost as far away from the town I was examining in (we passed through it to get to the casa) as the place I was in previously, but had the added bonus of being nowhere with no food or drink to be had - breakfast was a 07:30 15-km drive back to Sarinena to a roadside cafe for a stale croissant and a coffee. The only purpose for the trip seemed to be for the fawning owner of the casa, who himself owned the academy I was examining at, to make a quick buck by charging for a night’s accommodation. Here's a picture of me at computer with water. Good to carry that stuff around. Life blood, don't you know? *
It’d started to look bleak the moment he picked me up from Huesca, with this guy trying to describe in stilted English how his school was bigger (80 metres square) than the one I’d previously been examining at. He continued to try and tell me how he was single-handedly rescuing the town’s local economy, although from watching him and his Mrs, the business acumen was all hers. The fawning and helping continued right until the exams finished (12 noon) and I’d given the results to the centre, whereupon the guy in particular lost interest in me and started to ignore me, despite my needing assistance getting at least to the train station 2 km away (I was also with my luggage) to get a train that left a full four hours after I’d finished examining.
It’d started to look bleak the moment he picked me up from Huesca, with this guy trying to describe in stilted English how his school was bigger (80 metres square) than the one I’d previously been examining at. He continued to try and tell me how he was single-handedly rescuing the town’s local economy, although from watching him and his Mrs, the business acumen was all hers. The fawning and helping continued right until the exams finished (12 noon) and I’d given the results to the centre, whereupon the guy in particular lost interest in me and started to ignore me, despite my needing assistance getting at least to the train station 2 km away (I was also with my luggage) to get a train that left a full four hours after I’d finished examining.
*
It took over an hour to negotiate a lift to the station (only three hours waiting left), during which time he could’ve driven me to Zaragoza and back, and this after I was told I could get the bus to the station. Happy with the thought of leaving this self-serving couple, I agreed to the bus and asked where it went from. Details were vague and this made me make them get exact details. After an amount of arguing (him with locals), it turns out there was no bus – good job I asked for details. I asked about taxis I might get after eating lunch, too. But no, none to be had. So eventually, a lift was agreed, but only after I’d stopped at the supermarket next door to pick up beers and light bread products to see my through my waiting. There are various other incidents with this guy which helped damn him in my mind, but I’ll leave it there for now.
It took over an hour to negotiate a lift to the station (only three hours waiting left), during which time he could’ve driven me to Zaragoza and back, and this after I was told I could get the bus to the station. Happy with the thought of leaving this self-serving couple, I agreed to the bus and asked where it went from. Details were vague and this made me make them get exact details. After an amount of arguing (him with locals), it turns out there was no bus – good job I asked for details. I asked about taxis I might get after eating lunch, too. But no, none to be had. So eventually, a lift was agreed, but only after I’d stopped at the supermarket next door to pick up beers and light bread products to see my through my waiting. There are various other incidents with this guy which helped damn him in my mind, but I’ll leave it there for now.
*
When finally left at the small station (only 2 ¾ hours left), I found it very difficult to summon the manners to thank the guy for the lift. He seemed cheery and just glad to be rid of me, and to be fair, me of him too, pleased to be armed with a six pack of beer to drink in the Aragonian sun. There’s a short word I can use to describe this man, and it can be used both positively in the phrase, “He’s a *, but a good *”, or more commonly negatively, collocating with, “He’s a right *”. It’s the latter of the two that I’m thinking of here.
When finally left at the small station (only 2 ¾ hours left), I found it very difficult to summon the manners to thank the guy for the lift. He seemed cheery and just glad to be rid of me, and to be fair, me of him too, pleased to be armed with a six pack of beer to drink in the Aragonian sun. There’s a short word I can use to describe this man, and it can be used both positively in the phrase, “He’s a *, but a good *”, or more commonly negatively, collocating with, “He’s a right *”. It’s the latter of the two that I’m thinking of here.
*
Left at the abandoned station, I took half a breeze-block from a tumbled down wall, positioned it near to the track and sat and wai
ted (see picture above), strolling around the station from time-to-time, taking in the bare sights of the Spanish plains, which included some stalks nesting on top of a water tower. As soon as I got my camera out to take advantage of this feast of nature in a scene of abandoned desolation however, they stopped flapping about and settled down to sleep, as if sensing a Guardian photo entry in the offing. Still, I did have my beers, which I drank safe in the knowledge that it’d be most unlikely I’d ever be returning to Sarinena again and that Zaragoza was only a further hour away by local train service. An hour which mercifully passed asleep, no doubt partly due to the beer.
Left at the abandoned station, I took half a breeze-block from a tumbled down wall, positioned it near to the track and sat and wai
ted (see picture above), strolling around the station from time-to-time, taking in the bare sights of the Spanish plains, which included some stalks nesting on top of a water tower. As soon as I got my camera out to take advantage of this feast of nature in a scene of abandoned desolation however, they stopped flapping about and settled down to sleep, as if sensing a Guardian photo entry in the offing. Still, I did have my beers, which I drank safe in the knowledge that it’d be most unlikely I’d ever be returning to Sarinena again and that Zaragoza was only a further hour away by local train service. An hour which mercifully passed asleep, no doubt partly due to the beer.
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