Old Night, New Year

I was perplexed by the lack of signs of Christmas so close to the day itself. There were still no songs playing in the shops, still hardly any decorations of any kind. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know any Spanish carols either – between university and my colleagues, I had been introduced to a few. So why weren’t they playing? The first time I was really aware of Christmas was in the airport on the way home, which, in a way, was quite fitting.

The evening that I left was 22^nd December. This was an important day in Spain. It was the National Lottery. But not the National Lottery as we know it over here. These tickets were 20€ apiece, sold all year around by street vendors and cafes and supermarkets… They weren’t bought individually either. Each number had eight tickets attached to it, so somebody paid 160€ for the number, and then either kept the lot or sold the other tickets on to friends. And, unlike in the UK, it really is a national obsession here. Everybody does it, and everybody really does seem to dream about winning the lottery – it was all I heard about that week. Many people took the day off work just to watch it on TV – it was broadcast from 9am to around 2:30pm. As for me, I was subjected to it on the radio. I say subjected, because it got intensely irritating. The numbers weren’t read out, they were sung, always in the same tuneless tune, by a child (well, probably several different children) in a high-pitched voice. It was probably supposed to be cute, but all it served to do for me was give me a headache! The first large prize to be drawn was in the Cartagena region of Murcia (where we live and work), so at about 10:30 there was a mad scramble to check ticket numbers, but predictably none of my colleagues had won. Apart from that, it was fairly boring.

To say that I enjoyed being at home would be an understatement. To feel that I belonged, to be surrounded by familiarity of both family and friends and environment. To go through the comforting traditions of a family Christmas (watching “The Snowman”, playing spronkers by the lake, not opening presents until after The Queen’s Speech, being a present-bearing fairy and spending the lazy evening time reading Enid Blyton), to eat wonderful festive food (sprouts! Parsnips! Stuffing! BREAD SAUCE!!!!!) and to have breakfast at a proper time.

(playing spronkers.... sprouts are surprisingly resiliant!)

Not even getting a flat tyre in the cold British rain the one time I took my trusty car out could dampen my spirits. Four days wasn’t nearly long enough. I didn’t have any problem about going back to my job, but I just didn’t want to tear myself away from the UK. Knowing that I was only returning for less than a month before my next trip home made the parting bearable.

Back in Spain, it had finally happened – Christmas had arrived, and music was blaring from shops, decorations appeared on houses (albeit often religious rather than garish lights) and an enormous nativity scene had appeared in the town centre.

If these exist at all in the UK, they show just the scene of the birth of Jesus. This showed everything from the Magi in Eygypt to Mary receiving the news from Gabriel, to the arrival in Bethlehem to the birth of Christ to Herod to the murder of the Innocents, to the arrival of the kings. It was vast – perhaps 5 meteres by 20. I introduced my lunchtime colleagues to a traditional British Christmas cake – it’s not like anything here, which is all much lighter and usually almond-based – to great success and demands for the recipe.

Yesterday was New Year’s Eve, or as the Spanish put it, “Old Night”. It’s supposedly a huge celebration here – for me it began at midday on 30^th (when most of my colleagues called it a day for the festive weekend) with sweet Spanish cider for lunch, and a toast to the New Year in Spanish, Portuguese, Polish, Lithuanian, German and English – the languages of the colleagues who still happened to be there. Many people go out into the country and rent houses there for a night with friends and family if they can afford to. Others cook a big meal at home, and others go out to eat, usually at ridiculously elevated prices. Those who are so inclined pay through the nose to get into packed out bars and nightclubs, where many places serve a “free” buffet and bar. At the countdown to midnight, as the clock chimes, there is a tradition that for every chime you have to eat a grape – this is known as “tomar las uvas” – “taking the grapes”. I had rather anticipated an evening alone savouring Mr Cadbury and a dose of Mr Johnny Depp. As it was, I spent the day sunbathing thanks to a freakishly warm day, and in the evening my boss (who, although not being remotely Depp-ish, would also have been alone otherwise) and I went out for a curry, and then sat in the Irish bar with about 20 other ex-pats, and experienced the street celebrations as they unfolded. Typically, wherever “the place to be” on New Year’s Eve was, Los Alcazares wasn’t it. It was fairly dead, and most of those around were Brits. At midnight, the three bars still open near me spilled out onto the street and people began setting off fireworks and firecrackers. Health and safety out the window, rockets were set off from glass bottles and fired accidently into apartment balconies. A huge rope was produced – maybe 30 metres long – and snaked down the street. One end of it was set light to and a hundred firecrackers went off in succession, filling the street with the smell of cordite. The whole display was quite a spectacle, in a bizarre, unsafe way. Give me a Chinese lantern over a Chinese firecracker any day though!

New Year’s Resolutions? I happen to like them, though I know many who don’t. I think they can work, if you want them to. For the first time in about eight years, I’m happy to say that “Lose weight” has finally been struck off the list. I don’t want to lose any more. Instead…

I resolve to be healthy and strong.

I resolve to continue exercising my writing skills.

I resolve to be able to leave Spain satisfied.

I resolve to continue pushing myself to speak Spanish.

I resolve to keep in touch with good friends, and not to lose contact with any more of them.

I resolve to cease scratching my head (seriously, this is a really irritating one!!)

2011 was an interesting year for me. I worked hard and played hard at uni, ensuring that my final year was my favourite one. A wonderful set of flatmates, a healthy obsession with yoga, and the distraction of theatrical projects got me through my final exams. I started the year thinking that I would be a primary school teacher, and then became convinced that I would be a plumber. I enrolled on a plumbing course that then fell through thanks to government cuts. That was when I began to explore jobs in food – somewhat half-heartedly given as I assumed that doing a languages degree was a bullet in the foot – and by chance happened upon the training company who now employs me, who happened to be keeping an eye out for linguists with experience with fresh food. Because of my time farming in France, I was in with a chance after all. I graduated, not with the first class degree that I had hoped and worked for, but with the highest 2:1 I could possibly have achieved. Soon after, I had the offer of a job. A summer – probably my last living at home with my family - of unemployment followed as I waited to be told where I would be going for my first placement. I bought my first car – a shiny red Honda Jazz – and felt like a grown up. I was told I would be going to Spain, and two weeks later I went. I found it difficult at first. The job got easier but the social situation didn’t, and I struggled. And here I am now.

I wonder what 2012 will bring.

Hasta luego.