Things I don´t like about living in Spain, part VII

A trip into Oviedo last week failed to bring me any results in my quest for a bra. This was my last hope. The Corte Inglés (a Spanish chain of large, slightly upmarket department stores) had to have a suitable one, or so I thought, but I was foiled for the nth time and now I give in.

Finding a bra in Spain that´s bigger than a C-cup and that isn´t obviously made for the older women in that detestable skin-coloured fabric - you know the type, they look like some kind of industrial hoist - is impossible. What do well-endowed young women do here? It beats me, and I´m too embarassed to go up to one in the street and ask. It´s back to good old M&S this time. Unfortunately they don´t ship abroad, but thankfully I have a mother who does.

Things I don't like about living in Spain, part VI; things that make me happy about living in Spain, part VI

When I lived in Cardiff my main mode of transport was my beloved bike. I used to look forward to cycling into uni in the morning (ahem, afternoon), zipping in and out of the traffic and making my way down the cycle lanes to the front of the queue at the lights, cheekily stopping right in front of the car waiting there. There's nothing quite like the satisfaction you obtain from getting around under your own steam, knowing that you're getting excercise and not polluting the environment - unless it's by swearing at the stupid pedestrian who thought they could cross the road right in front of you, or walk in your cycle lane, or the moronic commuter who impatiently swings round in front of you from behind before taking a left-hand (for anyone not in the UK/Australia read right-hand) turn causing you to slam on your breaks and curse as foully as you know how at the top of your voice. Despite the idiots on the road, cycling the Welsh capital and the sense of independence it gave me was always one of my favourite things about living there.

Those that know where I live will proabably have guessed what's coming next. What I really don't enjoy about where I live in Spain, exactly where I live, is that it's like this:

View from our terrace with El Entrego at the bottom of the valley.

This is all very well to look at, and I love it most of the time, however, cycling most places around here involves hills - big, steep, imposing hills, oh yes, and don't let's forget the mountains.

I am nowhere near fit enough as I need to be to use my bike as a serious method of transport to get about in these parts. I once tried cycling back from work and only made it through the town and most of the way up the first hill - which to be fair is the steepest one of the whole route back - before I realised I couldn't breathe properly and had to start walking. I greatly miss not being able to hop on my bike and take myself the wherever I wish to be.




Every so often, it happens that Matt needs the car when I have to be at work. As long as it's not raining, this is something that always perks me up. Out comes the bike from the shed, greeted like a long-lost friend and down the hill I go to work. I adore cycling into town, the feeling of freedom it gives you to wheel your way down the hill, wind in hair and mountains on the horizon is unbeatable. I often like to play chicken with my sense of self-preservation and see how much speed I can build up down an certain stretch before I put the brakes on.

When I cycle into work I always arrive feeling revitalised and ready for the day's challenges. If I didn't have to rely on a lift home afterwards I'd do it every day.

Things I don't like about living in Spain, part V

Hands up who spent 26th December at home, eating leftovers in front of the telly, with friends in the pub, or just generally relaxing.

Well, you can all feel very smug because I spent it at work, and with a hideous cold that'd started the day before. Yes, that's right. Spain, land of the public holiday, does not recognise the 26th December as such (unless you're fortunate enough to live the Balearic Islands or Catalunya). Next time I bang on about how many national holidays I enjoy here you can all remind me what happens on Boxing Day. Grrr.

Things I don't like about living in Spain, part IV

The need to do this post has been building up for quite some time now, although I'd been putting it off because, well, one doesn't like to moan too much. However, I can take it no longer, I absolutely have to rant and rave about bad Spanish drivers, or Spankers as my friend's dad down near Malaga calls them.

Now, before anyone starts with their "hang on just one moment...", I do realise that Spain does not have a monopoly on dreadful motorists and I'm fully aware that making generalisations and stereotyping is a Bad Thing. However, I would like you all to read the following post and make up your own minds.

I first became aware of bad Spanish drivers (to henceforth be referred to a BSDs) when I spent five months living in Valencia in 1996. The flat I rented with some friends from uni was on one of the main roads leading into the city centre, with two fairly busy lanes in each direction. Apart from honking horns, the most common sound - two or three times a day - rising above the general buzz of the traffic, was the screech of car tires as a vehicle had to come to a sudden stop for one reason or another. Then in Lugo (Galicia), where I spent nine months in 1997-1998, I learnt about the impatience of Spanish drivers and their use of the car horn - if Spanish drivers are waiting in a queue for any reason and feel that they should have started moving already, somebody will honk their horn. Once this first move has been made, everyone will follow suit, and it's not just one honk, it's constant honking, no matter what time of day. The road where I used to work in Lugo was a popular honking spot due to it being a narrow residential street with cars parked on either side. All it needed was for one car to double park for a minute to drop something off or pick up a friend and the cacophony would start.

So that's my introduction to BSDs, nothing too damning so far, but carry on reading and you'll see...

Since I have been in Asturias I have learnt just how bad BSDs can be. I don't know if this is because Asturias has a greater proportion of BSDs or because this is the first time I've actually driven in Spain myself. No matter, all I know is that there are a great many people around here who should not even be let near a car, never mind allowed to get in one and motor around.

Apart from the usual suspects (BMW drivers) there are many other categories of BSD. To start off with we have our older drivers, normally male, who have never actually passed a driving test and yet have still been given a licence. This is because, apparently, years ago in Spain the driving licence did not exist, all you needed to be able to drive was a car. When the law was finally changed they just handed out licences left, right and centre to those who were already motoring. I can imagine that this wasn't too bad at the time when cars were slower and there were fewer of them on the roads. Nowadays though, you often come across older drivers doing 20 kph in the middle of the road with cars trying to get past in both directions.

Next, we have the roundabout virgins. I call them virgins, because even though you know they must've taken on a roundabout before, you'd never guess it from their driving. This normally takes one of two forms. The first involves stopping whilst on the roundabout to let cars onto it. You constantly need to be on the lookout in case you have one of these in front of you and have to hit the brakes suddenly. The second category is made up of those people who only ever use the outside lane, no matter what exit they're taking. Matt and I have learnt from experience that we use the inside lane at our peril. Several times we've been cut off when trying to move from the inside to the outside lane to exit and we find that the person who'd originally taken the outside lane has moved all the way round the roundabout with us to then cut us off at the point we wished to exit, meaning that we need to navigate the roundabout once more to finally be able to get off it. The very worst example of roundabout abuse that I have been witness, and unwilling party, to and possibly the worst example of driving I've ever seen in Spain, was at the small roundabout at the edge of town with an exit that leads uphill to our house. There are four roads leading off the rounadbout and I was coming from town to take the last exit home. Behind me was a small white van (yes, OK, I should've known!). I indicated right to let the driver behind me know where I was going and off I went. To my astonishment, when I came to the exit I saw the van coming from my left - the wrong way round the roundabout - to pull in front of me and zoom off down the same exit as I was about to take. I slammed on the breaks and spend a few seconds flabbergasted before I carried on my journey home, running in the front door to tell Matt about the biggest Spanker I'd ever come across.

Next there are non-indicators. The name speaks for itself and includes 90% of the drivers round here. The first thing you know about the person in front of you stopping at the roadside is when s/he suddenly slows down in front of you and pulls over with not the slightest indication of his/her intentions. You can also get a combined non-indicator/roundabout virgin. It's highly frustrating to be waiting at a roundabout for a car that is not indicating and that you assume is going straight round past you, only to find that s/he exits down the road you're coming from, thus spoiling your perfect opportunity to get on the roundabout. And this happens almost every time.

Now we come to bad parkers. You get them everywhere, but they proliferate here. BSDs will park anywhere. They double park on narrow roads, they park on zebra crossings and block the lowered part of the pavement so wheelchair users can't cross the road. They will park on street corners at an angle where the two roads meet. Sometimes it's not obvious they've even parked, they just stop in the middle of the road. Driving through El Entrego on market day is like running a slalom.

Then there are the zebra-crossers, who seem to have no idea what pedestrian crossings are for and drive straight across them at speed. Not only is this annoying when I want to cross the roads, but it also has the effect that when I do stop to let pedestrians cross, they usually ignore me and stay put or wave at me to carry on. Those that do cross often do so with a servile look of gratitude on their face as if I've just done them a huge favour that they can never possibly repay. This lack of regard for crossings has irritated me so much that I've now taken to crossing them, on foot, as slowly as possible, just to annoy the Spankers and make certain that they have to stop to let me across.

The penultimate category of BSDs is drunks. Going out for a tipple with your car and then driving home is very common here, and not just in the evenings but at lunchtime too. They will often combine all the charateristics of the above-mentionned drivers so you especially have to be on your guard. There is a bar half-way up the hill to our house, and I often get caught behind someone who's obviously had 'one' too many and fancies another one the way home. The best thing to do with these is to keep your distance at all times and watch them like a hawk. Don't try to overtake as you never know when they're going to swerve across the road, and they probably don't know either. They'll often slow down from their snail's pace to salute acquaintances on the way up and then pull over when they get near the bar without any indication whatsoever.

And finally we get to the macho youngsters, scourge of the Spanish roads. As the name suggests, this category is mostly made up of the male of the species, although it also includes all those females who feel the need to show that they can drive just as 'well' as their male counterparts. These people often drive Seats or will have souped up another make of car. The Seat is ideal though as it proves what a thoroughly nationalistic and masculine driver is behind the wheel. You know you're in for trouble if you see one approaching in the rear view mirror. Another sign of these drivers is a torrito sticker on the rear of the car. Combine this small black bull with a red Seat León sporting a spoiler and a huge exhaust and you have your muy macho youngster, an even worse offender for speeding, tailgating and suicidal overtaking. Of course, the best way to deal with these is to keep a cool head and let them past. Matt however prefers to squirt his windscreen cleaner if he finds one behind him - as they get so close they end up with water on their screens too. For some reason seem to be unable to deal with using their windscreen wipers and driving at speed at the same time so they normally back off after the threat of a little of water. I still prefer to let them overtake and then curse them loudly, it make me feel much better.

So there we have it, a damning account indeed, I think, and a warning for anyone thinking of driving in Spain. I defy anyone not to let me enter Spankers/BSDs onto my Spanish blacklist!

Things I don't like about living in Spain, Part III

These last couple of weeks at work have been exhausting. And there is one thing in particular I blame for us having to run around madly at the Academia, preparing work at the last minute for desperate students, and that is the Spanish Education System.

Now, I'm well aware that if it weren't so bad, I possibly wouldn't have a job, but when a student (B) comes to you and says he has to take a resit in five days time because the teacher has lost his final exam papers you do begin to despair.

We have numerous cases at the moment of students who have to take resists next week. In some cases it's because they've been lazy all year, failed previous exams, and really, they deserve it and hopefully will learn a lesson (although you do have to wonder why they've been lazy; it seems it's often because the teacher has failed to make any effort to make the lesson interesting, so the students just don't want to learn).

Another example, take N. He'd failed a couple a of exams throughout the year which is normal for the average student, they have to sit so many (and this is another point about the system here - there's an exam for every unit in the course book, about nine, plus end of term exams. I thought the idea behind education was to instill a love of learning, here all they instill is a hatred and a fear of never-ending exams), and needed to pass the final exam to be able to move up a year in September. He turned up at the Academia two week before the last exam. We ran about finding work for him to do, explained the grammar, and he knuckled down to it. He passed the final exam, but because of the previous fails has now been informed he still has to do the resit. No wonder some students ask why they should bother.

And this isn't just at the schools. My boss, when she was at university, took three years to pass one module simply because her lecturer took a personal dislike to her. (This wasn't uncommon apparently - she'd often tell people not to come in for the next lecture, wearing, for example, 'that horrible cardigan'. Who do these people think they are?) She went to see the dean, who told her he couldn't do anything about the problem and it was only in the third year after she'd been failed again by the miserable lecturer that he arbitrarily decided to pass her anyway.

We have an adult student, J, a music teacher who  had been taking an two-year English course at Oviedo University which would have given him a qualification to teach English to infants. He put so much effort into this, wrote wonderful stories in English and taught with them, and was told recently in a letter that was sent to all the students on the course that everyone had passed. A week later, he got another letter to say that he and another student had in fact, not passed, but failed. When he asked for an explanation he was told simply that his work had been insufficient. They took two years to tell him this and he's shattered. The worst thing is that his tutor, who failed him, is head of department and he has no other recourse.

There are no rules to this, it all works on the individual teacher's whim, which is what most gets my goat. We've had students this week who haven't known if they've passed or not and have been waiting in limbo to see if they have to take the resit - which is only a few days away. I find it highly unjust that a child's educational welfare rests as much on how they get on with the teacher as their academic ability. In the case of B (who struggles with English but who's been making more effort this year), he's had trouble with his teacher all year and I find it highly suspicious that his exam papers have mysteriously gone missing. Even if it's true, what does this tell us about the teacher?

In the case of those sitting their baccalaureate this year, we've had our work cut out for us since almost the start. Because most of the class (at the high school) was misbehaving, the teacher refused to teach. He just sat in class and handed out work, with no explanation other than 'look in your course books'. He took the biscuit towards the end of the year when we were doing his teaching for him on the last unit in the book: he suddenly announced that he wasn't going to set an exam for that unit after all but that the final exam would be on the Monday of the following week. Needless to say we spent many extra hours finding work and giving classes to those students - although we did work a minor miracle and all but one passed.

I could go on endlessly, these are just the worst examples that spring to mind at the moment. The problem is that teachers are not held accountable. There are no exam boards and every exam is set and marked by the individual teacher. There are good teachers, and great ones, although they currently seem to be in the minority. I finish work in two weeks - in theory. However, our summer is now getting booked up by students who have to take the last-chance resit in September - it looks like my days on the beach and in the mountains this summer will be limited.

I therefore place The Spanish Education System onto my bad things about Spain list, where it shall deservedly stay until somebody instigates a major upheaval in the way children are taught, I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but I'm not holding my breath.

Things I don't like about living Spain, part II

I've been feeling another Victor Meldrew moment creeping up on me for a while now. I suspect this was brought on by our recent trips to Media Markt with a broken DVD player.

For those who don't know, Media Markt is a European chain which sells all sorts of electro-domestic items, DVDs, CDs, computers and accessories, etc. The DVD player in question has stopped working while still under guarantee, so we took it back and were told they had to send it off to repair it, and that it would take between two weeks and a month to get it back. Six weeks later we were still waiting for a call to tell us it was ready to collect. Several phone calls to the store went unanswered so we went back one morning to complain only for it to be revealed that said DVD player had been returned a few days earlier. It transpired that they'd changed it for another repaired one as ours couldn't be fixed.

We returned home, tried the player and, lo and behold, it wouldn't respond to the remote. Ugh. Back we went to Media Markt, where they revealed that, although it was the same brand, and looked exactly the same as the original player, it was in fact a slightly different model from the first one. So we asked for a different remote, which seemed to be the most logical thing to do. Oh no, we were told, this was not at all possible - the player and remote had to go back to be fixed again. I enquired why they hadn't taken the remote the first time, or why knowing they were sending back a different model had we not been informed that the remote wouldn't work, but the girl at customer service couldn't tell me. So I asked for a complaint form (una hoja de reclamacion - for anybody needing one. Legally, all shops have to have them and hand them out when asked for). Only when I did this did she promise that if it wasn't back within 20 days, we could have a new player. I was quite pleased at this, the threat of a complaint form worked a treat and I shall be trying it again in the future if needs be.

Yesterday made it 21 days. We drove wearily, yet ready for a verbal battle, to our current second-least favourite store (keep reading for our number-one-of-all-time least favourite). It turned out that the player had only recently arrived in Barcelona to be fixed (why it had to be sent so far away I have no idea) so they, without us having to utter a single complaint (this time), offered us a new one. We had to pay the slight difference in price, but we got a brand-spanking new DVD player with a year guarantee (good news, because the old one was about to run out). Success, of a sort, although we had to earn it. Fnac, on the other hand has excellent customer service and I'd recommend anyone to buy there rather than Media Markt. We've taken two broken DVD players back there, one almost two years old, and they've replaced them both, without fuss, at the same time and with a further two-year guarantee. Now that is how you should treat your customers.

The worst culprit for appalling customer service we've come across so far in Spain is, by a mile, Ikea. The mere mention of the name now makes Matt froth at the mouth and utter expletives and I shall explain why:

When Ikea first opened in Asturias in June 2005, we got very excited at the prospect of cheap, yet stylish furniture for our new house and went and spent over €1,400 Euros there. One of the items were purchased was a €20 'universal' wooden toilet seat. Just over three months later it broke at a joint, so we returned to Ikea, receipt in hand, to ask for a replacement. We were not expecting the reply we got, which was a simple, yet emphatic, "no".

Most Ikea products, it turns out, including every single item on our €1,400 + receipt, only have a three month guarantee and they refused to change the toilet seat as there was, according to them, no design fault. We pointed out that neither of us are very heavy people and that we'd expect a product that apparently had no fault to last for more than three months when all we'd been doing was using it for the express purpose for which it was designed. Were we expected to return to the store every ninety days to buy a new one? But still no, they stood their ground and we stomped out of the store determined for revenge, although not before Matt had strutted round the store, seat in hand, proclaiming to anyone who would listen "calidad terrible, tres meses de guarantia" (terrible quality, three-month guarantee).

The same week we wrote polite letters to Ikea head office in Spain and to their headquarters in Amsterdam and included one of their adverts with a picture of an elephant standing on a chair that stated that they test all their products to destruction in order to ensure they're long-lasting - Matt artistically added a speech bubble with a question mark coming out of the elephant's mouth. We also visited our local consumer-society office and they promised to take matters into hand, First however, we were told we had to return to Ikea to get an official complaint form which we duly did, filled it in, had it signed at Ikea, signed it ourselves and took it back to the consumer society office and were told they'd sort things out for us. Incidentally, we also found out that the law that Ikea quotes on the top of its receipts (in Spain) stating that all items can be returned, in their original packing, up to three months later, is the very same law that states that all new products must have a two year guarantee, (although after six months the onus is on the consumer to prove that the item broke because of a fault in the product at purchase). This point of the law, of course, was not mentioned on the receipt.

Just after Xmas we received two letters, one from Amsterdam stating that they couldn't deal with the complaint and were passing it onto Spanish head office (we're still waiting for a reply to either letter that they received) and a letter from the Consumer Society in Pola de Siero (the area where Ikea is located) saying that our complaint had been passed on to them and that please could we go there within two weeks of their sending the letter to restate our complaint if we wanted them to carry on dealing with it. Also, we should now take the toilet seat back to Ikea for testing. We were fuming. As it was Xmas the letter had arrived over two weeks after it was sent, there was no contact number for the office and we had no idea where it was in Pola de Siero. We were also highly annoyed about having to take the seat for testing when it had been less than six months old when it broke. This was why, in a very large fit of pique, Matt took up the seat in his hands, raised it above his head and dropped it on our kitchen floor, where it promptly broke into several pieces which we burnt on our living room fire - at least it was good for something. Needless to say we've not been back to Ikea since and have no intention of doing so ever again.

Therefore, I would like to instate 'customer service in large, arrogant stores' onto my 'bad things about Spain' list. Ikea customers be warned.

To end on a happier note, we've never had any problems with retuning items to smaller, independent shops. We've always found them to be very helpful and have concluded that it's worth spending a few extra Euros in them for better quality and much better customer service.

Things I don't like about living in Spain, part I

On the whole I love living here in Spain. Asturias is a beautiful region, I enjoy my job, I like our house and I'm very happy here with Matt and the cats. However, there are certain aspects of life here that I wish I could change.

My particular gripe today is mushrooms of the shop-bought variety. We made a pizza last night. It was topped with aubergine, green pepper, and mushrooms. We make our own dough (in the bread machine) and tomato sauce and slice all our own toppings. The whole process takes a while but it's worth it - the finished product is always very tasty. However, preparing mushrooms here is, to be frank, a pain in the arse. I don't know what exactly what they're grown in, but it's gritty, and it clings to the mushrooms for dear life. I know you're not supposed to wash mushrooms in order to clean them as they have a sponge-like structure and soak in the water, thus imparing the flavour- instead you're supposed to wipe them with a damp cloth/piece of kitchen towel. Obviously the person who invented this cleaning method did not live in Spain. To begin with I wasted a significant amount of time trying to clean them with kitchen towel only to find dinner still grinding between my teeth when I nibbled a piece of mushroom. Now I've resorted to washing them under the tap and then drying them off in the salad spinner. Not ideal, but at least our dinners are now grit free.