Sleepy Suffolk

… or so seems to indicate Google Maps.

I was looking into Cambridge Airport today to see how convenient and close it was to Cambridge’s rail station should I want to go and fly from there when Google Maps actually delivered a total blooper.

As I swapped from Map view to Satellite view, here is what Google Maps displayed:

Google Maps relocates Luton Airport to Cambridge

Yes, the hangar is labelled as Luton Airport. I squinted hard and long to try to spot those orangey, easyJet planes. But all I could see was grass, tarmac and semi-terraced homes whose owners would probably have a heart attack if suddenly the 117,859 Luton take-offs & landings took place here in tranquil Cambridgeshire.

Whatever happened to Google Maps?

Everytime I take my newly acquired car, I feel like John Cusack in the 1999 movie ‘Being John Malkovich’.  John found a door behind a file cabinet in an office which led him to the mind of John Malkovich. As he stepped through the door, he assumed John’s persona. I feel very much the same when I step into Amaia’s former car (or what’s left of it). The feel of the steering wheel, the smell of the car, its sound all remind me of Amaia. I can picture her giving me a lift to work, pulling crazily away on the wheel to make it turn (yes it’s that old… the car), I can nearly hear her pull up and park in front of our house.

Of course, thankfully, the car isn’t the only thing that reminds me of Amaia. In fact, if anything, the car is probably something I’d want to forget. It’s probably decreased my life expectancy by a good few years through induced stress and fearful situations. And it’s shedding parts, displaying its great autotomy ability.

Great Expectactions

- or how Ruben is not your typical Jamie Oliver -

When we moved in together, I hardly knew what to expect. Yes, she seemed a nice person in all respects. On a scale from 1 to candy machine, she scored well beyond Galaxy and Mars. But it’s one thing to get along with someone, and a whole different can of worms to live with that given person. And that didn’t only apply to Amaia. It was true of Amaia, Ruben and Juanlu.

March 2008 - A few weeks before the move, Amaia, Ruben, JuanLu came over to my place for a bit of dinner. Pizza was on the menu: after all if Spaniards and Frenchmen meet, they might as well have a bite of Italian. Ruben, wanting to be the handyman, took the pizzas out of their packaging and popped them into the oven. Unfortunately, much to our dismay, we realized a full ten minutes later that the pizza was piping hot and just rightly cooked but that the styrofoam Ruben had absent-mindedly forgotten to remove had blackened to a color that would have made the plague look a bit pale. This single act of kitchen vandalism struck Ruben off the list of ‘best cook housemate award of year’. With two candidates left, the competition seemed as healthy as deep-fried Fish ‘n Chips with extra scrappings.

Swedish Matches

April popped round the corner, the move was a dismal experience (and righfully deserves its own dedicated post later on). Eventually on a sunny Sunday afternoon drowned in football fans’ clamors from Portman Rd as Norwich City clashed with Ipswich Town, I swept one final time the wooden floor of my fourth-floor apartment. Amaia and Ruben came up for the last time, we checked all rooms were empty and we went out for a late lunch of burgers and salad (when some of us live of amour et eau fraîche, Ruben lives on salad).

Slowly, we started settling in, moving furniture, arranging our rooms, making ourselves cosy. I already a lot of furniture so my task was mainly to sift and throw rather than acquire new items. On the other hand, my Iberian fellow friends needed a few items: beds, shelves, curtains…  Amaia being neat and meticulous, wanted to decorate her room to a standard she would be content with. And so started a long saga of furniture shopping. Not quite a saga. It was more like a love story, a passion, a yearning that called Amaia away from Ipswich for 4 or 5 weekends. It was so intense, so true, that she even took her parents one day to meeting the object of her desires, what caused her heart to flutter and to enter a mellow turmoil at first sight. Blond, big, Swedish. Who could resist? Yes, Amaia had fallen in love with IKEA, Sweden’s #1 furniture department store established worldwide and also in Essex selling prime quality furniture.

Ruben, JuanLu and I lost track of the many trips Amaia took down the A12 to go shop at IKEA. When someone asked where Amaia was, we’d shrug and answer, «probably at IKEA»…

to be continued… On the recognition of languages in national constitutions

Once upon a time in the tranquil village of Ipswich, Suffolk, there was a group of friends who decided to go to the movies to spend a nice evening out, watch the latest blockbuster and chit chat about the actors’ performance on the silver screen.

Jesus, our cinema mastermind, astutely chose (500) days of Summer, a promising rom-com by Mark Webb.  And so, come eight PM, I drove from my place in my new rickety VW Golf Boston 1992 (yes a car from last century - if it were anywhere close to fast, I’d call it a blast from the past) down Foxhall Rd to pick Jesus and a fellow friend Xabi who - for once - decided to watch a movie at the theater rather than download one (ahem). I’ve had my driver’s license for as long as I can remember but never actually owned a car so these last few weeks have been sheer moments of glorious pride and elated joy in spite of the ruckus caused by my wobbly exhaust pipe. I could now give lifts to people, take them place, and boast about my rusty red roamer. However I still cannot focus on the driving of the vehicle and on the in-door entertainment or airing system at the same time. And so, steam having built up and slightly dimmed the visibility, I kindly asked Jesus to look at the dashboard and figure out which of these darn knobs would clear up this condensation. Being a clever man, he soon found the right combination, and the windshield was quickly crystal-clear.

A mere few minutes later, we were driving round and round the cinema’s parking lot in a desperate attempt to find a spot for my four-wheeler.  This reminded me of a buzzard in a Texan desert circling round a prey, a cactus in the background gloomily dropping its shadow on the hot sand. We eventually managed to tuck our car in a small spot by the local McDonalds, turned the headlights off, locked the doors, opened the doors again for Jesus to wind up his window tight and dashed off to the cinema. We were greeted by a long queue of patient customers piling out through the cinema doors and outside in front of the building.

And once we made our way up to the cash register, we were greeted with a slightly sarcastic “sorry, it’s full” message. What Jesus had failed to mention - his Dad bless him - was that this was no ordinary screening. Oh no, Lord Almighty! It wasn’t even the Premiere. Better yet, it was the nationwide pre-premiere, in plain old English, the day before the Premiere. Yes they do that in the cinema industry. I wish I’d been to the day before the premiere of  The Day after Tomorrow for the sole sake and pleasure of telling the story.

The day before the Premiere is traditionally a fairly busy day for the movie in question and (500) days of Summer being a fairly well rated movie with great expectations, it seemed all of Ipswich had piled in to get a piece of the action. No rom-com tonight, Jesus, shame… We eventually fell back on a slightly less romantic, slightly more active movie called The Hurt Locker where the good guys (American soldiers) go about disarming bombs in a war-riddled Iraq. And in lieu of love sparks, we had a hollywood-load of explosions of cars, buildings, and people. Near-misses and not so near misses… To be honest, as far as American Hollywood Iraq war movies go, this one was fair, even potentially good and didn’t fall into any complacent message or improbable acts of super-heroism drenched in a patriotic music meant to wrench out feelings of pride from the spectator.

As the credits rolled out on the screen, our ears still buzzing with the sounds of ack ack and blasts, we piled out of the cinema and headed to the car. Jia-Yan who’d joined us wisely chose to make her way home while Gogo, Xabi, Jesus, and I went back to my car. In we went, noted the ventilation was still on - but you know it’s just air and a small fan right - buckled our seatbelts, inserted the key in the ignition and turned the engine on…

And turned the key again. And again. Another try? Yes, the battery was dead flat. All this because we’d left (or should I blatantly accuse Jesus and say he rather than than we) the ventilation on, this wheezy little flow of air that sounds more like an asthmatic patient on his deathbed than a decent car ventilator made in Germany. I snapped the ventilation off, bringing the car’s purring to a stop, and try to start the engine again. A sputter, a faint roar (more like a cat meowing) but no more. The bells of midnight were now tolling inciting us to make our way home. But how? A quick call to my fellow house dwellers confirmed none of them had jumper cables (yes apparently that’s the technical name. I suppose they can double as a skip rope at the weekend for the kids to enjoy). Luckily we remembered Sergio, our savior-to-be and fellow friend from Brazil, was well equipped (car-wise). A quick call got him out of his house and on the road to the cinema to pull us out of this prickly situation. We then struggled to get my car hood (bonnet I reckon in UK English) open and read the cable instructions twice over for fear we should wrongly connect the ends. The last thing I wanted was to suck out Sergio’s battery too. At this point, Xabi took over the manoeuvres. It seems that apart from being a programming geek and virtuose, he’s also at ease behind the steering wheel, under the car, and beneath the hood. After several tentatives groping about in the dark (remember it’s midnight and I can’t use the car lights, we really shouldn’t tease the battery anymore than it has been) under the steering wheel, Xabi finally found the lever to pop open the hood. Aha, open Sesame.

Connecting the battery was yet another challenge. We started by looking at the battery-engine cables and trying to decide which was black which was red. But at such an early hour of the morning, in a soot-laden engine, it was hard to reach any conclusion. Luckily, one of the knobs came with a plus sign - which was a plus in our battery-charging mission.

Once all cables were duly connected, we waited for a few minutes and started my poor Golf’s engine. No result. Another tentative? Still flat. Billions of blue blistering barnacles! Xabi craftily fiddled with the cables, checked the connections, and gave the go-ahead thumbs up. A few minutes’ wait to let my battery soak up some electrons. Another try was finally answered with a triumphant roar from my car. The once silent exhaust pipe rattled once again not unlike Arizona snakes, we bade Sergio farewell expressing our deepest gratitude to tonight’s hero. I lost my faith in the process for I realized Jesus was not our savior at all. If anything, Sergio helped us out.

We all drove home, relieved we had pulled out of this electrifying situation. The car hoisted its way up Back Hamlet, I dropped battery scavenger Jesus, and cable wonderboy Xabi, and soon arrived home.

Home Sweet Home. My comfortable bed. My soft bedsheets (ugly ones Maria would interject) for which I had been yearning. And the Sandman soon dropping by to work his magic on our household.

A newcomer

Amaia landed in Ipswich late 2006, possibly early 2007. She brought in her bags the essence of a sun-drenched Spain, the mellow flavors of the Mediterranean, and  the singing accents of the Sierra Nevada. Or so would the poet at the height of the XIXth century’s Romanticism have rambled. This was the time when Byron roamed about a neo-classical Greece while Garibaldi fought for his revolutionary ideals in nearby Italy.
The truth is, however, not so grand. Amaia is in fact from Northern Spain. Her home province is probably quite the climatic opposite of Suffolk: where Wolsey’s homeland is known for its dry weather in the UK (relative dry weather, we are after all in a very humid - to put it mildly - island), Navarra is on the contrary possibly of the more humid provinces of a bone-dry peninsula. Located at the easternmost tip of what is considered as Green Spain, the northern counties bow to the Atlantic as it brings in lashes of relentless rain. So much for Amaia’s sun-drenched, mediterranean-flavored Spain. As for the accents, in lieu of a melodious singing voice, people from Navarra are said to talk grossly, in a very recognizable way. I wouldn’t judge local accents though. I struggle enough as it is with English and French ones. I will return to Caesar what belongs to him and leave the accent debate to Native Spaniards.

Romance in the air

In this great confusion of Spanish stereotypes, Amaia had nonetheless arrived in the capital of Suffolk somewhere between 2006 and 2007. Her pretty face, ebony dark curly hair, and deep eyes soon had the better of most single chaps in our group of friends. Surely, soon enough a long list of suitors formed about her - much like Japanese tourists huddle around the Mona Lisa in Paris. Phone numbers were exchanged, compliments were hushed down the table at lunchtime, and invitations were sent.
I must admit I myself was not indifferent to Amaia’s charms. Then again, I have a weak spot for anything ‘made in Spain’. But at the time, I was happily engaged in a deep and meaningful relationship (ahem) with my then beloved Laurine (God bless her cotton stockings).
The first true contact I had with the newcomer was - I believe - on a gloriously sunny Saturday afternoon. To be quite frank, I can’t remember the weather, but it suits the storyboard. I then lived with 2 fellow Germans, Mirko and Michael. None of us really cooked then except when either Mirko’s girlfriend or mine came round. Shopping was therefore limited to the strict minimum and usually the bright orange bags we brought home from Sainsbury’s only contained breakfast items, bread, flour (for the bread-producing Germans), jams, and cheese. With this in mind, imagine Mirko’s surprise as well as mine when we suddenly saw Michael walking into the house plowing under the weight of several shopping bags full to the brim of fresh produce, meat, sauce, and even a bottle of red wine. What was he brewing? What surprise was he cooking us? Literally… Well almost, for if indeed he was about to toss together a five-star meal, neither Mirko nor I were invited to the table. Shyly, Michael came into the living room and told us he had company for lunch and asked us whether we minded sticking to the living room and not intruding into the kitchen, converted into his den for the time of the meal.
Mirko and I glanced at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and resumed whatever important task we were doing, keep well clear of the kitchem and its cacophony of plates banging, pots clashing, and pans simmering on the cooker. Then silence. A long pause. The meal must be ready. The doorbell - well a knock (the doorbell is broken). A rush of air - Michael running down the corridor - the door opens. Voices are heard. And in comes none other than Amaia. Yes, sir. Our very own Michael, slightly baldish (God bless his remaining hair), uncanny grin, and a good heart, had invited Amaia, the ravishing Pamplonese, to a tête-à-tête dinner. On the scale from zero to Hyacinth Bouquet’s candlelight supper, Michael scored quite high that day. If only he’d had hand-painted perrywinkle china…
Mirko and I refrained from intruding into the couple’s romantic lunch in the kitchen and we tried to muffle as much as we could our laughter. When I mention the event nowadays to Amaia, she dismisses it as being a simple lunch with no hidden agenda. Yes, we believe you, it’s Michael’s intentions that we question.

The candy machine

Michael was not alone in his efforts as Ruben, my other housemate, and Amaia’s galant knight and defender, later explained. And I now recall the many moments spent at the candy machine during coffee breaks. Back in the old day, I used to work in a team of 4 - all friends - developers. A hairy Italian chap called Mauri, a military-obsessed Dane, Lenni, and our lyrical day-dreaming Austrian Andreas. The building we were located in had no candy or coffee machine much to our dismay and we therefore had to walk to the building next door to refill on unhealthy sugary sweets in the likes of Kit Kat, Twix, and Mars. Amaia so happened to work in that building almost nearly directly above the candy machine. Our Great Dane would always try to meet up with Amaia there and share a bit of chinwag. Chocolate certainly maintained the love feel in the air. All we now needed was Robbie Williams and his hit song ‘all I want to feel’.

Feria de Pamplona

I didn’t see much of Amaia in the following months. I had little if no social life then and never met with the Spanish gang. I merely noticed she seemed to get excited everytime the number of the day matched the number of the month, i.e. the 2nd of Feb, 3rd of March, and so on. Was it witchcraft? No, wisely replied Lenni coming back from a reconnaissance mission. It’s all about bulls, running, and Hemingway? Ah and it involves drinking and partying until the wee hours of the morning. The Feria of Pamplona of course - 7th of July.

Moving homes

A year went by, months flew until days wound down to April 2008. Forced to move out of their house because of landlord issues, Amaia & Ruben were looking for a new roof. At the same time, JuanLu was also searching for a place where to settle down. And I was reluctantly giving up my apartment where I’d shared so many precious moments. Three Spaniards, one Frenchman looking for roof big enough for 4 with possibly room for a guest (code name Tikka). The answer to this hypothetic ad came from the offices of Martin & Co, a letting agency and its charming blonde agent who toured us round a house in Bull Rd - quite a fitting name for a mainly Spanish household. It’s a dire shame none of our last names is Osborne. Contracts were signed, money changed hands, keys replicated. Soon, furniture was flying around the house. At this precise moment, a new chapter started.

…to be continued…