It's just as well I haven't yet changed my name on my passport otherwise our son would have the surname: Pedrazas-Pedrazas. As if Pedrazas-Ball wasn't bad enough. There's no way around this. Children born here are automatically given the first surname of each parent.
Having such a mouthful for a surname may explain why it is uncommon here for people to have middle names, but we haven't ruled it out.
As for names - watch this space. We've been asked by a Spanish aunt what the name will be so that she can embroider the name on a blanket. Once again I am met with incredulous looks as I say that it's impossible to decide on the name until he's born. Viva las diferencias.
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Paperwork
Let's see, what do I have.
A Spanish husband.
My marriage certificate issued in the UK - which I've been told is invalid in Spain as it does not have a stamp. Madre mia.
My passport, which I have to carry everywhere with me as I don't have a national identity card. I even have to show it to get into the local swimming baths.
My European health card issued in the UK in my married name which may cause issues as my passport is in my maiden name.
An E112 from the UK confirming that I can have health cover, including maternity services, until March 2010 (stamped, thankfully).
A certificate from the local police confirming that I am a foreigner in Spain and an NIE (Numero de Identidad de Extranjero) - a foreigner's identity number. Obtaining these two pieces of documentation took three visits to the police station (with a mandatory ten days break between visits 1 and 2), two visits to the bank (?) and a large helping of patience. The bank said we couldn't pay the fee as we didn't have the number and the police said that we couldn't have the number until we'd paid the fee. Catch 22. The policeman shut up shop at 10am to go for breakfast. The security guard shrugged and said, "well he has to eat."
A certificat d'empadronament - I'm really not quite sure what this is, but the local council issued it and it means I can join the local library.
The paperwork is mounting, and yet trying to get a clear answer from anyone in a position of authority as to exactly what it is that I need to just receive health care here is almost impossible. I've been told I need a social security number, but I can't have my own as I've never paid tax here. Fine. I understand that. So I can be registered on Ivan's number. But he's been out of the country for five years, so until he starts work (on Monday) neither of us our covered. Let's hope we have an illness free weekend.
A Spanish husband.
My marriage certificate issued in the UK - which I've been told is invalid in Spain as it does not have a stamp. Madre mia.
My passport, which I have to carry everywhere with me as I don't have a national identity card. I even have to show it to get into the local swimming baths.
My European health card issued in the UK in my married name which may cause issues as my passport is in my maiden name.
An E112 from the UK confirming that I can have health cover, including maternity services, until March 2010 (stamped, thankfully).
A certificate from the local police confirming that I am a foreigner in Spain and an NIE (Numero de Identidad de Extranjero) - a foreigner's identity number. Obtaining these two pieces of documentation took three visits to the police station (with a mandatory ten days break between visits 1 and 2), two visits to the bank (?) and a large helping of patience. The bank said we couldn't pay the fee as we didn't have the number and the police said that we couldn't have the number until we'd paid the fee. Catch 22. The policeman shut up shop at 10am to go for breakfast. The security guard shrugged and said, "well he has to eat."
A certificat d'empadronament - I'm really not quite sure what this is, but the local council issued it and it means I can join the local library.
The paperwork is mounting, and yet trying to get a clear answer from anyone in a position of authority as to exactly what it is that I need to just receive health care here is almost impossible. I've been told I need a social security number, but I can't have my own as I've never paid tax here. Fine. I understand that. So I can be registered on Ivan's number. But he's been out of the country for five years, so until he starts work (on Monday) neither of us our covered. Let's hope we have an illness free weekend.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
A prescribed way of life?
Barcelona - Day 21
To layer or not to layer?
I took the plunge a couple of Saturdays ago to have my haircut here. It was woefully overdue (5 months since the last cut) and shame on me for having left it so long.
I've been lucky and nothing disastrous has happened to my hair during pregnancy - in fact it's looked rather good, and unsurprisingly quite long after such a period of neglect. Keen to keep it long and mindful of advice of never to consider a new hairstyle while expecting, I made sure I was equipped with the vocabulary to request a modest trim ("me cortas los puntos") and off I went to la peluqueria. There appear to be thousands of hairdressers in Spain - one on every corner - that and pharmacies (more on the nation of hypochondria and self-prescribers another time).
The conversation went something like this...
Hairdresser: "What can I do for you today?"
Me: "Just a trim please"
HD: "But it's all one length and I think you should have it layered"
Me: "I don't want layers, and I definitely don't want it done like the woman who was before me. Just trim the ends please"
HD: "But it would look much better with layers"
Me: "I don't want layers - it goes curly when it has layers and I've spent about 4 years growing them out"
HD: "Curly is nice - I think you should have layers"
Me: "No thank you - just a trim please"
Guess what? I now have more layers than a mille-feuille pastry. I almost screamed as she picked up her scissors and cut off a good 6 inches. "Que haces con mi pello?" - "What are you doing to my hair?", I demanded. She just smiled and said it will look much better. I'm not going there again. It will take me years to grow out.
Yet when I look at every other woman here in Spain with hair over a certain length, she also has layers. It's as if all of the hairdressers have received instructions from a central authority that long hair must be layered. Either that, or the hairdressers only know how to do one style.
Instructions to pee
When I was given my receptacle to deliver the first of my weekly urine samples here in Spain I was a little surprised that it came with instructions. My experience in the UK in this area has never been great...it doesn't seem to matter how many times you practice, peeing into a small pot to provide a urine sample is inevitably a bit messy. Coupled with using Wandsworth health centre's toilet to deliver the goods and all the etiquette that comes with using public loos...handbag must not touch the floor, bottom must not touch the seat...I don't think it could be described as pleasant. But in the UK it was simple. Show up for your appointment, take a pot, provide a sample, wrap it in tissue paper (I only started doing this when I saw someone else had done it and thought it was quite a considerate thing to do for the nurses), and take your sample in when called to see the midwife.
Here in Spain you are given at least a day in advance: 1 pot, 2 test tubes and 5 instruction points in 2 languages, roughly translated as follows:
1. The sample must be the first flow of the day
2. Use the large pot to catch the urine, being careful to avoid the start and finish of the flow
3. Using the large pot, fill the two test tubes with the urine
4. Firmly close the test tubes
5. Finally, invert the test tubes to check that there is no leakage and that they are well closed.
As for points 1 and 2, at home, any flow will do and as for not catching the start and finish, when your bladder has been crushed to a fraction of its normal size sometimes that's just all there is to catch.
So, I've come to a country where it feels as if some aspects of life are quite prescribed. My hair must be cut in a certain way and I must pee according to lengthy instructions. Lordy.
To layer or not to layer?
I took the plunge a couple of Saturdays ago to have my haircut here. It was woefully overdue (5 months since the last cut) and shame on me for having left it so long.
I've been lucky and nothing disastrous has happened to my hair during pregnancy - in fact it's looked rather good, and unsurprisingly quite long after such a period of neglect. Keen to keep it long and mindful of advice of never to consider a new hairstyle while expecting, I made sure I was equipped with the vocabulary to request a modest trim ("me cortas los puntos") and off I went to la peluqueria. There appear to be thousands of hairdressers in Spain - one on every corner - that and pharmacies (more on the nation of hypochondria and self-prescribers another time).
The conversation went something like this...
Hairdresser: "What can I do for you today?"
Me: "Just a trim please"
HD: "But it's all one length and I think you should have it layered"
Me: "I don't want layers, and I definitely don't want it done like the woman who was before me. Just trim the ends please"
HD: "But it would look much better with layers"
Me: "I don't want layers - it goes curly when it has layers and I've spent about 4 years growing them out"
HD: "Curly is nice - I think you should have layers"
Me: "No thank you - just a trim please"
Guess what? I now have more layers than a mille-feuille pastry. I almost screamed as she picked up her scissors and cut off a good 6 inches. "Que haces con mi pello?" - "What are you doing to my hair?", I demanded. She just smiled and said it will look much better. I'm not going there again. It will take me years to grow out.
Yet when I look at every other woman here in Spain with hair over a certain length, she also has layers. It's as if all of the hairdressers have received instructions from a central authority that long hair must be layered. Either that, or the hairdressers only know how to do one style.
Instructions to pee
When I was given my receptacle to deliver the first of my weekly urine samples here in Spain I was a little surprised that it came with instructions. My experience in the UK in this area has never been great...it doesn't seem to matter how many times you practice, peeing into a small pot to provide a urine sample is inevitably a bit messy. Coupled with using Wandsworth health centre's toilet to deliver the goods and all the etiquette that comes with using public loos...handbag must not touch the floor, bottom must not touch the seat...I don't think it could be described as pleasant. But in the UK it was simple. Show up for your appointment, take a pot, provide a sample, wrap it in tissue paper (I only started doing this when I saw someone else had done it and thought it was quite a considerate thing to do for the nurses), and take your sample in when called to see the midwife.
Here in Spain you are given at least a day in advance: 1 pot, 2 test tubes and 5 instruction points in 2 languages, roughly translated as follows:
1. The sample must be the first flow of the day
2. Use the large pot to catch the urine, being careful to avoid the start and finish of the flow
3. Using the large pot, fill the two test tubes with the urine
4. Firmly close the test tubes
5. Finally, invert the test tubes to check that there is no leakage and that they are well closed.
As for points 1 and 2, at home, any flow will do and as for not catching the start and finish, when your bladder has been crushed to a fraction of its normal size sometimes that's just all there is to catch.
So, I've come to a country where it feels as if some aspects of life are quite prescribed. My hair must be cut in a certain way and I must pee according to lengthy instructions. Lordy.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Real life and homesickness
Barcelona - Day 17
The dawning of realisation
So life here is really about to begin in earnest and I'm a little apprehensive to say the least. What with having tasks to do for the first couple of weeks to keep me fully occupied, the tasks are done for now and real life starts. But quite what real life will be for the next month remains to be seen as movement becomes more of challenge; and what real life will ensue is anyone's guess.
I don't remember the last time that when someone asked me what I was doing tomorrow that I could give the response..."quite honestly, I don't know."
Housewife weekend - tales of frustration from a sh1t oven
I've christened this weekend as "housewife weekend" as cooking and cleaning have taken centre stage. This was not a weekend where I was thankful for the extra hour as the clocks went back - a few less would have suited me much better.
It doesn't seem to matter how many times I sweep the white floor tiles, a large pile of dirt and dust is guaranteed. I'm already fed up with the brush and missing my marvelous Dyson. I don't care if we don't have carpets, I still want a hoover.
Getting to grips with the oven has been this weekend's major challenge. Jamie's "perfect roast chicken" recipe left me with a partially raw bird at the time of serving (thank goodness the Spanish like to eat late) and yet Sunday's lasagne was almost burnt in under half an hour. At least the fish pie went down well - thank you Delia Smith.
Seven year-old jealousy
Ivan's son has been with us every weekend since we arrived when he would normally only see him every other weekend, so I'm not sure yet if that can be classed as normal life. He's also especially jealous at the moment, no surprise, and I thank God that the amniotic fluid is supposed to provide the best suspension and protection system known to man. Hopefully Popcorn is unaware of the slaps he receives to find out if he's awake. I need to think of it as preparation for what is yet to come. Little brothers inevitably have the sh1t kicked out of them by older brothers, so some early toughening up shouldn't do any harm.
Welcome to Catalunya
My frustration is compounded as they have what feels like their own secret Catalan language and almost resolutely refuse to speak Spanish which I've spent the last 18 months desperately trying to improve. Officially the region has two languages, but don't believe a word of it. The official languages are Catalan and Catalan. My Spanish efforts are met with vacant looks (and I'm really not that bad) and are translated immediately into Catalan so I might as well speak English. If I'd come here 50 years ago when all but the Castillian languages were surpressed (a la Franco) I may have had an easier time.
So, my inability to master the local language, and not knowing people here are already making me look forward to coming home, but I suspect it's just the homesickness talking.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth
Our plans were simple enough. Take advantage of the additional maternity leave offered in the UK and come to Barcelona to have the baby and try out life. Ivan would be with me when the baby was born and then look for a job to start in the new year. In the antenatal classes that we attended in the UK he would lean over and say "it will be different for us as I'll be with you for the first few months and I've done it all before..." Smug.
Not so...he starts his new job a week on Monday. The six month contract will take us to May of next year which is at least a good time for us to start planning the move back to the UK. The hours are pretty flexible (8-3 three days a week, 9-6 the other two) with some possibility of working from home, so the opportunity is too good to let pass. The upside is that Ivan can have the summer off and we can make the most of our flat by the beach and have lots of friends to visit. The downside is that I'll be stuck with a new baby and without friends in a town where speaking the traditional Spanish language is frowned upon. People say that the first three months are absolute hell anyway, so chances are I may not even notice. Time to invest in a car.
First visitors...
....arrive this week. I've just received news that they've broken down in Lyon in France so may not be staying quite as long as initially planned. Just as well as I can't quite face getting intimate with the oven again so soon.
The dawning of realisation
So life here is really about to begin in earnest and I'm a little apprehensive to say the least. What with having tasks to do for the first couple of weeks to keep me fully occupied, the tasks are done for now and real life starts. But quite what real life will be for the next month remains to be seen as movement becomes more of challenge; and what real life will ensue is anyone's guess.
I don't remember the last time that when someone asked me what I was doing tomorrow that I could give the response..."quite honestly, I don't know."
Housewife weekend - tales of frustration from a sh1t oven
I've christened this weekend as "housewife weekend" as cooking and cleaning have taken centre stage. This was not a weekend where I was thankful for the extra hour as the clocks went back - a few less would have suited me much better.
It doesn't seem to matter how many times I sweep the white floor tiles, a large pile of dirt and dust is guaranteed. I'm already fed up with the brush and missing my marvelous Dyson. I don't care if we don't have carpets, I still want a hoover.
Getting to grips with the oven has been this weekend's major challenge. Jamie's "perfect roast chicken" recipe left me with a partially raw bird at the time of serving (thank goodness the Spanish like to eat late) and yet Sunday's lasagne was almost burnt in under half an hour. At least the fish pie went down well - thank you Delia Smith.
Seven year-old jealousy
Ivan's son has been with us every weekend since we arrived when he would normally only see him every other weekend, so I'm not sure yet if that can be classed as normal life. He's also especially jealous at the moment, no surprise, and I thank God that the amniotic fluid is supposed to provide the best suspension and protection system known to man. Hopefully Popcorn is unaware of the slaps he receives to find out if he's awake. I need to think of it as preparation for what is yet to come. Little brothers inevitably have the sh1t kicked out of them by older brothers, so some early toughening up shouldn't do any harm.
Welcome to Catalunya
My frustration is compounded as they have what feels like their own secret Catalan language and almost resolutely refuse to speak Spanish which I've spent the last 18 months desperately trying to improve. Officially the region has two languages, but don't believe a word of it. The official languages are Catalan and Catalan. My Spanish efforts are met with vacant looks (and I'm really not that bad) and are translated immediately into Catalan so I might as well speak English. If I'd come here 50 years ago when all but the Castillian languages were surpressed (a la Franco) I may have had an easier time.
So, my inability to master the local language, and not knowing people here are already making me look forward to coming home, but I suspect it's just the homesickness talking.
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth
Our plans were simple enough. Take advantage of the additional maternity leave offered in the UK and come to Barcelona to have the baby and try out life. Ivan would be with me when the baby was born and then look for a job to start in the new year. In the antenatal classes that we attended in the UK he would lean over and say "it will be different for us as I'll be with you for the first few months and I've done it all before..." Smug.
Not so...he starts his new job a week on Monday. The six month contract will take us to May of next year which is at least a good time for us to start planning the move back to the UK. The hours are pretty flexible (8-3 three days a week, 9-6 the other two) with some possibility of working from home, so the opportunity is too good to let pass. The upside is that Ivan can have the summer off and we can make the most of our flat by the beach and have lots of friends to visit. The downside is that I'll be stuck with a new baby and without friends in a town where speaking the traditional Spanish language is frowned upon. People say that the first three months are absolute hell anyway, so chances are I may not even notice. Time to invest in a car.
First visitors...
....arrive this week. I've just received news that they've broken down in Lyon in France so may not be staying quite as long as initially planned. Just as well as I can't quite face getting intimate with the oven again so soon.
Friday, 23 October 2009
Who's the last?
Barcelona - Day 15
Al mercado - to market
Every day in Canet is market day, except for Sunday when most of Spain closes down. Mondays are no good for fish as the fishermen don't go out on Sundays and Wednesdays are the best as there's an extended market. So now I know.
Unsurprisingly I was accompanied by my in-laws on my first trip. Ivan was out of town so it doubled as today's Spanish lesson. "We want to introduce you as our daughter-in-law so that the traders don't try to rip you off for being a foreigner." Thank you indeed. So now I know the best places to buy fish, poultry, rabbit (my cooking skills are going to be tested...), jamon (it has a food group all of its own), vegetables and fruit, and the traders will have the wrath of my mother-in-law if they try anything on. I also now know how to recognise a good custard apple from a bad one and understand that with every purchase something comes for free - usually a big bunch of parsley. I can only conclude that parsley is given to neutralise the vast amounts of garlic consumed at every meal. Spain consumes more garlic per capita than any other nation - and we Brits thought it was the French who topped the garlic charts. Everything is so fresh and so LARGE and I was advised that people will eye me with suspicion if I only ask for small amounts ("you only want 3 onions??"). Personally half a kilo of tomatoes sounded like quite a haul to me, along with a kilo a fish (free parsley), a whole chicken (free garlic and the head and feet) and a lettuce almost as big as me. Besides, I can't carry much at the moment. Ivan's father suggested I buy myself one of those trolleys that most people's grandmothers pull about. I politely told him that once the pushchair is operational that I wouldn't have any spare hands.
Wot no queuing?
Queuing doesn't get a look in. Everyone pushes their way to the front and it is customary to approach the stall and shout "quien es el ultimo?" - "who's the last?". So manners may not be necessary, but memory is.
Supermarket sweep
I was accosted in the supermarket by a lady who probably told me her life story, but I didn't understand much. Being pregnant gives the world, and old ladies in particular, an opening to talk to you. Fortunately it also offers an escape. After 15 minutes of chatting, or rather me listening and nodding in what appeared to be the right places, I was able to excuse myself on the basis of needing to pee.
Al mercado - to market
Every day in Canet is market day, except for Sunday when most of Spain closes down. Mondays are no good for fish as the fishermen don't go out on Sundays and Wednesdays are the best as there's an extended market. So now I know.
Unsurprisingly I was accompanied by my in-laws on my first trip. Ivan was out of town so it doubled as today's Spanish lesson. "We want to introduce you as our daughter-in-law so that the traders don't try to rip you off for being a foreigner." Thank you indeed. So now I know the best places to buy fish, poultry, rabbit (my cooking skills are going to be tested...), jamon (it has a food group all of its own), vegetables and fruit, and the traders will have the wrath of my mother-in-law if they try anything on. I also now know how to recognise a good custard apple from a bad one and understand that with every purchase something comes for free - usually a big bunch of parsley. I can only conclude that parsley is given to neutralise the vast amounts of garlic consumed at every meal. Spain consumes more garlic per capita than any other nation - and we Brits thought it was the French who topped the garlic charts. Everything is so fresh and so LARGE and I was advised that people will eye me with suspicion if I only ask for small amounts ("you only want 3 onions??"). Personally half a kilo of tomatoes sounded like quite a haul to me, along with a kilo a fish (free parsley), a whole chicken (free garlic and the head and feet) and a lettuce almost as big as me. Besides, I can't carry much at the moment. Ivan's father suggested I buy myself one of those trolleys that most people's grandmothers pull about. I politely told him that once the pushchair is operational that I wouldn't have any spare hands.
Wot no queuing?
Queuing doesn't get a look in. Everyone pushes their way to the front and it is customary to approach the stall and shout "quien es el ultimo?" - "who's the last?". So manners may not be necessary, but memory is.
Supermarket sweep
I was accosted in the supermarket by a lady who probably told me her life story, but I didn't understand much. Being pregnant gives the world, and old ladies in particular, an opening to talk to you. Fortunately it also offers an escape. After 15 minutes of chatting, or rather me listening and nodding in what appeared to be the right places, I was able to excuse myself on the basis of needing to pee.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
BBC iPlayer - a swizz
The BBC iPlayer and the itv.com website links don't work here (I feel very cheated) so for anyone reading please do update me on the progress of Strictly and X-Factor. I miss them.
Welcome to Spain...
...the weather is lovely as you can see from the photo taken from our balcony yesterday morning. I won't be making anyone jealous with this.
To be fair, the average weather for the time of year is about right with temperatures of between 15 and 21 degrees Celsius, (so naturally all the natives are wearing winter coats and scarves as it's soooo cold) and October is the wettest month with an expected nine days of rain. So it's no surprise I was soaked on my trip into the city yesterday morning. With the streets looking more like rivers I began to understand why so many people were wearing wellies....if only I'd had a camera.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/world/city_guides/results.shtml?tt=TT004270
Barcelona Women's Network
http://www.bcnwomensnetwork.com/
Yesterday's venture into the city was to go and meet some people while I'm still mobile enough to get around. I was the first to arrive at 10.30 and quickly realised that it's time to adopt the timing mentality of the locals...nothing starts on time. I did however meet a lovely group of ladies and for the first time in a fortnight could speak in my own language without really having to think or worry about being understood. Suddenly the gap between English and Americans seems very small. I came away laden with gifts of baby clothes and some recent issues of "Heat" magazine. Heat is normally only a treat at the dentist (I wouldn't dream of buying it) but it felt strangely comforting to read up on Jordan's misfortunes, Cheryl's solo career and Posh's skinniness last night.
Castellano or Catalan?
Another major accomplishment yesterday. We managed to bypass some of the administration requirements and had an appointment with the midwife. She looked at me and said "this is your first appointment with us and yet I can see that you are quite pregnant." Indeed, thank you for noticing. Comforting observations from a midwife. In fact she was lovely and by stroke of luck had spent some time working in London at St Mary's hospital so knew about the different expectations and methods in England and Spain. We've been referred to the hospital in Mataro, one of the seven hospitals in Catalonia listed as promoting natural birth and to execute with informed consent. We'll see.
New word for yesterday - "llevadora", only to discover that this is the word for midwife in Catalan, and if I want to be understood by most of the Spanish world then I should be using "comadrona". By the time I leave Spain I expect to have a vocabulary of mixed dialect only to be understood by a small group of people. At least I'll know what I mean.
To be fair, the average weather for the time of year is about right with temperatures of between 15 and 21 degrees Celsius, (so naturally all the natives are wearing winter coats and scarves as it's soooo cold) and October is the wettest month with an expected nine days of rain. So it's no surprise I was soaked on my trip into the city yesterday morning. With the streets looking more like rivers I began to understand why so many people were wearing wellies....if only I'd had a camera.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/weather/world/city_guides/results.shtml?tt=TT004270
Barcelona Women's Network
http://www.bcnwomensnetwork.com/
Yesterday's venture into the city was to go and meet some people while I'm still mobile enough to get around. I was the first to arrive at 10.30 and quickly realised that it's time to adopt the timing mentality of the locals...nothing starts on time. I did however meet a lovely group of ladies and for the first time in a fortnight could speak in my own language without really having to think or worry about being understood. Suddenly the gap between English and Americans seems very small. I came away laden with gifts of baby clothes and some recent issues of "Heat" magazine. Heat is normally only a treat at the dentist (I wouldn't dream of buying it) but it felt strangely comforting to read up on Jordan's misfortunes, Cheryl's solo career and Posh's skinniness last night.
Castellano or Catalan?
Another major accomplishment yesterday. We managed to bypass some of the administration requirements and had an appointment with the midwife. She looked at me and said "this is your first appointment with us and yet I can see that you are quite pregnant." Indeed, thank you for noticing. Comforting observations from a midwife. In fact she was lovely and by stroke of luck had spent some time working in London at St Mary's hospital so knew about the different expectations and methods in England and Spain. We've been referred to the hospital in Mataro, one of the seven hospitals in Catalonia listed as promoting natural birth and to execute with informed consent. We'll see.
New word for yesterday - "llevadora", only to discover that this is the word for midwife in Catalan, and if I want to be understood by most of the Spanish world then I should be using "comadrona". By the time I leave Spain I expect to have a vocabulary of mixed dialect only to be understood by a small group of people. At least I'll know what I mean.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Sea Road...
Barcelona - Day 12
Finally - we're in! Last night we spent our first night on "Sea Road" - Calle de Mar. It sounds much better in Spanish.
Of course we couldn't move in properly before the routine trip to Ikea, accompanied by the entire family - claro....so we still have some work to do. Relying on other people here is expected and it's something that will take some getting used to. Extended family excursions are also the norm for routine activities. I'm used to having something to do and getting on with it myself before consulting whichever members of the family happen to be around. Everyone will have their own opinion and these need to be examined, discussed and analysed before the final action is taken. I'm beginning to understand why things take time.
Our shipped boxes are due to arrive today so once we've unpacked, it really will feel like home. We've shipped a kettle (why on earth would you want to boil water...?) and a toaster - good news as I woke up this morning to my husband trying to cook the bread in the frying pan. I'm surprised we didn't activate the local bomberos (fire brigade), and we'll be waiting until the arrival of our pillar box red Dualit before attempting anymore.
So with one major task completed, another one awaits. Medical registration. Sounds simple. I've moved intercontinentally not internationally, but remember this is Spain - which I'm fast finding out is Europe's captial of bureacracy (and coming from someone who's lived in France that's saying something). I may as well have moved intergalactically. We've been to the local council twice, the GP twice, the police office once, some other department once (possibly the department of social security), and now we have an envelope full of papers, but still no access to a doctor or a hospital. It doesn't help that every official department is feeding us sometimes conflicting and always different information.
If I'd been in England I'd have been seen by a midwife last week, have an appointment booked in for next and be looking forward to what should have been my final scan next week. I'm told that once we finally manage to get the paperwork together and be accepted here then I will pretty much be prodded and poked from now until Popcorn arrives, so small mercies and all that, but the emotional hormonal rollercoaster that is being pregnant means that rationality and reasoning can be sometimes woefully absent. Only this morning I was banging on about booking myself on the first plane home. Poor husband.
Finally - we're in! Last night we spent our first night on "Sea Road" - Calle de Mar. It sounds much better in Spanish.
Of course we couldn't move in properly before the routine trip to Ikea, accompanied by the entire family - claro....so we still have some work to do. Relying on other people here is expected and it's something that will take some getting used to. Extended family excursions are also the norm for routine activities. I'm used to having something to do and getting on with it myself before consulting whichever members of the family happen to be around. Everyone will have their own opinion and these need to be examined, discussed and analysed before the final action is taken. I'm beginning to understand why things take time.
Our shipped boxes are due to arrive today so once we've unpacked, it really will feel like home. We've shipped a kettle (why on earth would you want to boil water...?) and a toaster - good news as I woke up this morning to my husband trying to cook the bread in the frying pan. I'm surprised we didn't activate the local bomberos (fire brigade), and we'll be waiting until the arrival of our pillar box red Dualit before attempting anymore.
So with one major task completed, another one awaits. Medical registration. Sounds simple. I've moved intercontinentally not internationally, but remember this is Spain - which I'm fast finding out is Europe's captial of bureacracy (and coming from someone who's lived in France that's saying something). I may as well have moved intergalactically. We've been to the local council twice, the GP twice, the police office once, some other department once (possibly the department of social security), and now we have an envelope full of papers, but still no access to a doctor or a hospital. It doesn't help that every official department is feeding us sometimes conflicting and always different information.
If I'd been in England I'd have been seen by a midwife last week, have an appointment booked in for next and be looking forward to what should have been my final scan next week. I'm told that once we finally manage to get the paperwork together and be accepted here then I will pretty much be prodded and poked from now until Popcorn arrives, so small mercies and all that, but the emotional hormonal rollercoaster that is being pregnant means that rationality and reasoning can be sometimes woefully absent. Only this morning I was banging on about booking myself on the first plane home. Poor husband.
Friday, 16 October 2009
"Ella no come...."
34 weeks, 2 days
Barcelona Day 8
Translation of "ella no come"....she doesn't eat. It's how I'm talked about at every meal time. And for the record, como....I do eat. Mucho!
Anyway, food is important here and if you don't eat a mountain at every meal time, then it's considered to be a waste of a sitting. Mountains are for climbing, not eating, but I'll do my best.
Newsflash...no longer homeless!
At least our major problem of being homeless has been resolved. We have keys to a gorgeous apartment right by the beach and about a 40 minute train ride from the centre of Barcelona. It wasn't our original plan. We were planning to be city dwellers for our time here, but plans never seem to quite work out. We've traded the convenience of being in the city for a much bigger flat, a sea view, a local community, and a 30 second hop to the beach. I just hope people will still come ad see us :-).
Impromptu purchase...
What with no longer being homeless I decided I could at least go and look at pushchairs. We knew what we wanted and were told by the helpful ladies in El Corte Ingles that the order time is two months. Two months??! So we made our way home on the train with the shop display model (yellow)
and another item ticked off the list. It's been an expensive week.
English lessons
Living in a small town rather than a big city means that we may just have found ourselves in demand to teach the local children English. Three years into his English lessons, and ten year old Marc is still on numbers 1-20. I think we can do better than that. Apparently word is spreading and we may just find ourselves in business without really trying.
Barcelona Day 8
Translation of "ella no come"....she doesn't eat. It's how I'm talked about at every meal time. And for the record, como....I do eat. Mucho!
Anyway, food is important here and if you don't eat a mountain at every meal time, then it's considered to be a waste of a sitting. Mountains are for climbing, not eating, but I'll do my best.
Newsflash...no longer homeless!
At least our major problem of being homeless has been resolved. We have keys to a gorgeous apartment right by the beach and about a 40 minute train ride from the centre of Barcelona. It wasn't our original plan. We were planning to be city dwellers for our time here, but plans never seem to quite work out. We've traded the convenience of being in the city for a much bigger flat, a sea view, a local community, and a 30 second hop to the beach. I just hope people will still come ad see us :-).
Impromptu purchase...
What with no longer being homeless I decided I could at least go and look at pushchairs. We knew what we wanted and were told by the helpful ladies in El Corte Ingles that the order time is two months. Two months??! So we made our way home on the train with the shop display model (yellow)
and another item ticked off the list. It's been an expensive week.
English lessons
Living in a small town rather than a big city means that we may just have found ourselves in demand to teach the local children English. Three years into his English lessons, and ten year old Marc is still on numbers 1-20. I think we can do better than that. Apparently word is spreading and we may just find ourselves in business without really trying.
Monday, 12 October 2009
The end of the Age of Independence
Barcelona - Day 4
A big year for me...I'll have moved two tickboxes.
Disturbingly and with the inevitability of increasing age I have moved up to the next age tick box. The positive - I'll be here for the next nine years. The negative - that I'm already here :-(
Somewhat frighteningly I'll soon need to tick the dependents box. At once the most frightening and most exciting.
Still no flat, still no hospital. Tick, tock, tick, tock...
A big year for me...I'll have moved two tickboxes.
Disturbingly and with the inevitability of increasing age I have moved up to the next age tick box. The positive - I'll be here for the next nine years. The negative - that I'm already here :-(
Somewhat frighteningly I'll soon need to tick the dependents box. At once the most frightening and most exciting.
Still no flat, still no hospital. Tick, tock, tick, tock...
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Made it...
33 weeks 3 days...
After a week of admin followed by four days of packing, we made it to Barcelona on Thursday. With six suitcases (one of them brand new - bought at the airport to free up some kilos so that our bags were allowed on the plane), two rucksacks and a handbag. I swear most of the stuff was Ivan´s - he says it´s mine. We won´t settle that one for a while as who knows when we´ll get to unpack.
Packing up the flat in London and our worldly belongings was harder and more emotional than I thought. As always, the task filled to the time, and what started as careful rationalised thought over what to throw, pack, donate to charity, store etc. by Wednesday evening had turned into just about everything in the bin. Seven years in one place makes for a lot of stuff. The process - oddly tear-jerking - has at least forced us to cleanse and rationalise before our impending arrival. But hopefully not for a few weeks yet as we have a flat to find and a hospital to register with. The UK postal strike meant that none of my health documentation arrived, so fingers crossed that I´ll be looked after.
It´s roasting here. I was settling into the English autumn (my favourite season), and here I am propelled back to 25 degrees and swollen hands. The rings will need to come off soon.
As for finding a flat, we started yesterday. The first we saw was big with questionable decor, but we think could live with that. It´s up a great big hill which could be good for the inevitable post natal quest to try to at least regain a bit of shape. The second we saw can only be described as grim. The bathroom window opened out into the kitchen. Anyone for simultaneous crapping and cooking...?
It´s a bank holiday weekend here this weekend so the mission starts again on Tuesday. The clock is ticking....two weeks to find something or I´m out of here. Tried and failed.
The only thing that anyone seems to care about is that we still haven´t come up with a name. I´ll just have to get used to the accusing and negligent looks. We´ve still got ages. And besides - he might not look like the one that we choose. Today´s chart topper is Luc Alexander Pedrazas (is LAP appropriate?).
In the last two days I´ve had a new fruit...chirimoya, and discovered that in Spain that sweet potatoes are eaten for dessert - just roast and add sugar.
After a week of admin followed by four days of packing, we made it to Barcelona on Thursday. With six suitcases (one of them brand new - bought at the airport to free up some kilos so that our bags were allowed on the plane), two rucksacks and a handbag. I swear most of the stuff was Ivan´s - he says it´s mine. We won´t settle that one for a while as who knows when we´ll get to unpack.
Packing up the flat in London and our worldly belongings was harder and more emotional than I thought. As always, the task filled to the time, and what started as careful rationalised thought over what to throw, pack, donate to charity, store etc. by Wednesday evening had turned into just about everything in the bin. Seven years in one place makes for a lot of stuff. The process - oddly tear-jerking - has at least forced us to cleanse and rationalise before our impending arrival. But hopefully not for a few weeks yet as we have a flat to find and a hospital to register with. The UK postal strike meant that none of my health documentation arrived, so fingers crossed that I´ll be looked after.
It´s roasting here. I was settling into the English autumn (my favourite season), and here I am propelled back to 25 degrees and swollen hands. The rings will need to come off soon.
As for finding a flat, we started yesterday. The first we saw was big with questionable decor, but we think could live with that. It´s up a great big hill which could be good for the inevitable post natal quest to try to at least regain a bit of shape. The second we saw can only be described as grim. The bathroom window opened out into the kitchen. Anyone for simultaneous crapping and cooking...?
It´s a bank holiday weekend here this weekend so the mission starts again on Tuesday. The clock is ticking....two weeks to find something or I´m out of here. Tried and failed.
The only thing that anyone seems to care about is that we still haven´t come up with a name. I´ll just have to get used to the accusing and negligent looks. We´ve still got ages. And besides - he might not look like the one that we choose. Today´s chart topper is Luc Alexander Pedrazas (is LAP appropriate?).
In the last two days I´ve had a new fruit...chirimoya, and discovered that in Spain that sweet potatoes are eaten for dessert - just roast and add sugar.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
Poetry
Last 5 days in the UK
As I'm packing, organising, sorting and writing letters I remembered that I'd promised to send my cousin a copy of the poem that I wrote on the day I got married. She's 80, so I've hand-written it and sent it off first class, so it will probably arrive on her doorstep by Christmas.
I waited patiently until the end of the groom's speech before reading my poem aloud and have since been accused of stealing all of his thunder (not to mention material)...
Valuable lesson which I really should have learned much earlier - never upstage your man.
Read aloud by me on 30th May 2009 (it comes with a severe cheese warning)
When I first met Ivan just one year ago,
That we'd be here today I just couldn't know,
"What a whirlwind it's been" some people say,
"From the time that you met to tying the knot today."
Him being from Spain and me from England,
Makes it all the more remarkable that he asked for my hand.
I cannot deny that we've wasted any time,
But as most of you know I'm not exactly in my prime.
So it feels like at last that fate has smiled on me,
And the past year that I've had is the best in memory.
That life will be difficult in my mind there's no doubt,
But more interesting it will be with this man about.
As for our family, how blessed we are,
Our only sadness is that most live afar.
We've seen more of each other than we have for a while,
Some events with a tear, others with a smile.
We celebrated Christmas as we do every year,
And then said farewell to two held most dear.
We shall not forget you as life carries on,
And we know that forever we'll hold memories so fond.
So now we must thank you for being here today,
To celebrate with us and to help us on life's way.
Changes are happening, indeed that's for sure,
Before the year is out our three will be four.
For your amazing generosity each and everyone we thank,
As they say that having a baby is like opening a bank...
So before that volcano erupts in our lives,
We're heading off for two weeks to Thailand's paradise.
To relax and to sleep and to generally have fun,
And to soak up some wonderful South Asian sun.
So thank you again, what more can we say,
Than we're delighted you're here to share our special day.
As I'm packing, organising, sorting and writing letters I remembered that I'd promised to send my cousin a copy of the poem that I wrote on the day I got married. She's 80, so I've hand-written it and sent it off first class, so it will probably arrive on her doorstep by Christmas.
I waited patiently until the end of the groom's speech before reading my poem aloud and have since been accused of stealing all of his thunder (not to mention material)...
Valuable lesson which I really should have learned much earlier - never upstage your man.
Read aloud by me on 30th May 2009 (it comes with a severe cheese warning)
When I first met Ivan just one year ago,
That we'd be here today I just couldn't know,
"What a whirlwind it's been" some people say,
"From the time that you met to tying the knot today."
Him being from Spain and me from England,
Makes it all the more remarkable that he asked for my hand.
I cannot deny that we've wasted any time,
But as most of you know I'm not exactly in my prime.
So it feels like at last that fate has smiled on me,
And the past year that I've had is the best in memory.
That life will be difficult in my mind there's no doubt,
But more interesting it will be with this man about.
As for our family, how blessed we are,
Our only sadness is that most live afar.
We've seen more of each other than we have for a while,
Some events with a tear, others with a smile.
We celebrated Christmas as we do every year,
And then said farewell to two held most dear.
We shall not forget you as life carries on,
And we know that forever we'll hold memories so fond.
So now we must thank you for being here today,
To celebrate with us and to help us on life's way.
Changes are happening, indeed that's for sure,
Before the year is out our three will be four.
For your amazing generosity each and everyone we thank,
As they say that having a baby is like opening a bank...
So before that volcano erupts in our lives,
We're heading off for two weeks to Thailand's paradise.
To relax and to sleep and to generally have fun,
And to soak up some wonderful South Asian sun.
So thank you again, what more can we say,
Than we're delighted you're here to share our special day.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Right to opine
32 weeks and 2 days...
NCT classes in the UK - finished.
Final midwife appointment in the UK - done.
Bped - no further progress with the name. I've been reliably informed that in Spain I will be asked the name of my child while I am in labour. Really. How can I name him before I've seen him? But if I say that to the midwife I risk being admitted to the psychiatric ward shortly after giving birth. So here's the list as it stands.
Finn - although Fin means "end" in Spanish
Luca - a little Italian perhaps but it's short, easy to pronounce in both languages and ends in a vowel, which according to Bill Crosby is an absolute essential for shouting purposes....Lucaaaaaaaa!
Morgan - this is a new one in the mix
Rafferty - too many Rs (I can't roll my Rs, which is quite crucial in Spain, so I will forever more have a speech impediment)
Rafael - one too many Rs
Oscar - the name of my Mum's cat and the name of England's most famous poof, but Ivan's favourite
Dylan - we both really like this, but it's not very Spanish
Alex - the name of my Godson but we both really like it
Daniel - in Ivan's top 3 which was news to me earlier this week
John - stoic, solid and I really like it. I think at one time just about everyone was called John, but not so much these days.
The words "finished" and "final" make me feel nervous. On my own now with a mountain of paperwork, and more things to remember than an aged elephant.
Final task from the NCT class. Write a birth plan. I'm not quite sure what good it will do in Spain as they appear to do most of the planning for you and the concept of informed consent is not widely understood, but maybe I'll have a crack if I have the time. It will just become another list in my growing google docs of lists. To do...give birth. On or around 25th November.
Latest pregnancy fact: 20% of women would still be naturally pregnant at 42 weeks. Sounds like a heck of a long time to me. Nine months really is just a myth - everyone who's been there knows that ten is nearer the mark.
Top of today's frustration list: It seems that being pregnant entitles everyone to have an opinion on you. People feel that they have the right to comment on your overall size, the shape of your behind, and of course the size of your bump. I cried when I told the midwife that I was fed up of being told I was "small" with an accusing undertone that I was already not feeding my growing baby enough. She told me it was nonsense and that I'm already plenty big enough with 9 more kilos than I had to start with, and that the next 8 weeks should see me grow to the extent that will quiet the chattering masses. In the meantime, she said, go out with earplugs.
NCT classes in the UK - finished.
Final midwife appointment in the UK - done.
Bped - no further progress with the name. I've been reliably informed that in Spain I will be asked the name of my child while I am in labour. Really. How can I name him before I've seen him? But if I say that to the midwife I risk being admitted to the psychiatric ward shortly after giving birth. So here's the list as it stands.
Finn - although Fin means "end" in Spanish
Luca - a little Italian perhaps but it's short, easy to pronounce in both languages and ends in a vowel, which according to Bill Crosby is an absolute essential for shouting purposes....Lucaaaaaaaa!
Morgan - this is a new one in the mix
Rafferty - too many Rs (I can't roll my Rs, which is quite crucial in Spain, so I will forever more have a speech impediment)
Rafael - one too many Rs
Oscar - the name of my Mum's cat and the name of England's most famous poof, but Ivan's favourite
Dylan - we both really like this, but it's not very Spanish
Alex - the name of my Godson but we both really like it
Daniel - in Ivan's top 3 which was news to me earlier this week
John - stoic, solid and I really like it. I think at one time just about everyone was called John, but not so much these days.
The words "finished" and "final" make me feel nervous. On my own now with a mountain of paperwork, and more things to remember than an aged elephant.
Final task from the NCT class. Write a birth plan. I'm not quite sure what good it will do in Spain as they appear to do most of the planning for you and the concept of informed consent is not widely understood, but maybe I'll have a crack if I have the time. It will just become another list in my growing google docs of lists. To do...give birth. On or around 25th November.
Latest pregnancy fact: 20% of women would still be naturally pregnant at 42 weeks. Sounds like a heck of a long time to me. Nine months really is just a myth - everyone who's been there knows that ten is nearer the mark.
Top of today's frustration list: It seems that being pregnant entitles everyone to have an opinion on you. People feel that they have the right to comment on your overall size, the shape of your behind, and of course the size of your bump. I cried when I told the midwife that I was fed up of being told I was "small" with an accusing undertone that I was already not feeding my growing baby enough. She told me it was nonsense and that I'm already plenty big enough with 9 more kilos than I had to start with, and that the next 8 weeks should see me grow to the extent that will quiet the chattering masses. In the meantime, she said, go out with earplugs.
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