Sleepy Suffolk, Snowy Sweden

With my hair freshly conditioned, I was ready to take on the latter part of the week with the resolute decision of blending into the local culture. With this objective set firmly in my mind, I decided to head to head to the Central Tax Office to register myself and get a ‘personnummer‘, not unlike the NI number over in the UK but in a friendlier format since it is composed of 12 numbers of which the first 8 represent your date of birth e.g. 19730321 for someone born on March 21st 1973.

And so, as 4PM came on Thursday, I headed to Kista T-Bana, the local underground station (although it is set some 15m above street level) and hopped on the tube. As the underground stations passed by, all with names more complicated than the previous one, I started counting how many people the personnummer system was intended for. Four single digits after a date of birth only allowed for 10⁴ people per day, that is not many, is it now? 365 days per year would impose a maximum of 3 650 000 new babies per year. Considering there are a little over 9 million Swedes (source US Census Bureau) of which only 4 576 420 are women of which 1 427 878 are between 15 and 40 (assuming this to be an accurate age range during which women can indeed bear child), each woman would have to give birth to 2.55 children on average per year. Since pregnancy takes 9 months (0.75 years), a woman would need to have 1.91 babies per pregnancy and non-stop pregnancies by all means. In other words, lest Swedes should incessantly produce twins, the Tax Office, when planning their numbering system, has planned for a generous baby margin.

Mathematically reassured by a potentially flawed and inaccurate calculation, I got off at T-Centralen and walked into Skatteverket, the office for taxes and all things related to personnummer. Iwas greeted by a friendly attendant who waved his iphone in my direction asking me what my business was and typing on the trendy touch screen. Once I told him the purpose of my visit, he tapped a bit more and suddenly a ticket printed out one of those antiquated number-giving printers seen mainly in bank queues and supermarkets at the dairy, fish, or meat section. Ah, and bakery aussi. A slick 2 point O phone mashed with a vintage printer, welcome to Sweden indeed, where design meets geekery.

A handful of minutes later, perhaps 10 or 20, I was called to a desk where a middle-age lady greeted me, asked me for my papers and went through a checklist of items that was no longer than a single-sided page. Being from the European Union does have its benefits. She eyed suspiciously my National ID-card, xeroxed it and gave it back not without adding that it was possible the authorities would deem necessary to see my passport rather than this dubious, chip-less piece of plastic. I was tempted to reply that yes I got her point as the color design was poor - surely the designer back in France must have been color-blind - but still the card was no fish. But I was afraid she wouldn’t quite grasp the fish ‘n chip joke, not that anyone would anyway.

With one administrative hurdle down, all I had to do now was to wait for Skatteverket to send in my shiny new number. And do not dismiss it as a mere formality. Oh no, the personnummer is your gold pass to life in Sweden, a token of trust from the administration, a numerical honor bestowed upon you by the civil servants of his Royal Highness of Sweden. Without it, you are defenseless. With it, you are fully suited to ward off the dragons and demons that await you when you try to open bank accounts, sign up for a library card, or ask for Swedish language courses.

In the meantime, as I walked out of the of the offices in a pitch-dark night, blessings of Stockholm’s northerly location, colleagues and I arranged to meet for drinks in a local bar at Odenplan. A few metro stops and a change later, we settled down at a table in an underground bar where we enjoyed local drinks: a refreshing pint of… Murphy’s. One can’t get any more Swedish, can they? To recap, I drank Swedish cider in the UK, I now drink Irish stout in Sweden, what on Earth will I down in Dublin? San Migüel (to pronounce it English style)?

A few pints later, the bill settled, our merry little gang spilled out on the streets and rode back home in Stockholm’s amazing public transport system (bear in mind I am comparing with Ipswich and London neither of which are famously known for outstanding achievements in that area). An hour or so and one wrong change later, I was back in the comfort of my home. The concept of heating was taking on yet again its full meaning.

Friday came and went. It was topped by an evening out with fellow colleagues in a Sushi bar in bustling Sodermälm followed by coffee and dessert in Slussen. This, if anything, is something quite extraordinary. One can have coffee and cakes at 9PM on a Friday evening. Not something one could achieve in Sleepy Suffolk.

It has now been a week since I relocated East and North of my former homestead, Sleepy Suffolk, to the unforgiving, snow-capped lands of Sweden where temperatures give a fresh and crisp new meaning to Jack Frost’s doings. The last few days have been times of new discoveries, astonishments, surprises, and early mornings one could do without. Here are a few recollections of the past week.

Sunday January 17^th - snow, American homes, and candles

I don’t frankly know what I expected but I was surprised to see the entire countryside was covered in snow as Ryanair’s flight FR052 initiated its descent on Skavsta. Naïvely, I thought that if snow had melted in Ipswich, it would have also given way in other places of Northern Europe. Only, of course, it was not to be. The bus that took me to Stockholm filled slowly with a mix of locals returning home and tourists headed out to what guide books don as the capital of the Nordics. The scenic route on the way reminded me of America in Winter: red barns and white fences in a pristine landscape, a mixture of pine forests and wintry fields. Much later, Babak took Ryan and me on a quick tour of northern Stockholm suburbs which layout, large houses, and backyards reminded me of Kansas City and the Midwest. Northern German and Swedish immigrants must have taken this architectural style in their luggage when travelling to the New World.

When in Stockholm in last November, I had been struck by the number of candles in cafés, streets, windows… As I stepped into my new home, a suburbian apartment, I was equally struck by the amount of candles, tealights, and electric candlesticks lying about. This would be a haven for a 1666 revival, enough to give a UK Health & Safety inspector a heart attack three times over. Mental note to self: never invite Thomas Farriner, the royal baker who started the London ‘66 blaze.

The apartment is cosy, large and spacious. Windows are equally large but well insulated avoiding a ‘Bar XIX’ type scenario where the large single-glazed antiquated windows invited every last draft from the street into our house. I am surprised to this day that Fadi, a fellow friend from warmer climates, hasn’t frozen yet. It sure felt like these windows hadn’t been renovated ever since the original planner, none other than Wolsey himself, had ordered the houses be built.

Monday & Tuesday January 18^th and 19^th - first days at work, commuting, and first shopping

The week started off to a series of company meetings and brainstorming. I already knew most of the team so there were hardly any new names or faces to learn. I got registered into the system which took a fraction of the time it would have taken in my previous job - thanks to the small size of the new company. With an access badge, an email, and a shiny new laptop, I was good to go.

Lunch was a novel, interesting, and I dare say delicious experience. My colleagues seemed surprised when I told them so. But by comparison to hub food, this was heaven for Gargantua. Salad bar, drink, bread and butter (yes Rubén that’s butter), and a main course compose a Swede’s daily lunch. With a choice of 3-4 main courses and twice as many types of bread, what else could one ask for? Coffee? Yes, it’s also included though on a scale from Italian to English, Swedish coffee ranks alongside the Insular variant.

On Monday evening, I sorted out a monthly travelcard, nearly twice as expensive as Ipswich’s travel card but at least valid on more services than just SuperRoute 66. Travelling back home was a near-blissful experience with trains and buses in sync. It took me a little over 30 minutes to get from work to my home stop and possibly just as much to walk from the stop to my home as I tried to recognize - in a pitch dark night - which of these darned buildings was mine. As my wee toes were giving way to the bitter cold, I eventually found the door to two-ten, my new home.

Tuesday followed on quickly. I managed to get up much earlier than I would in Ipswich (and much much earlier than Amaia would). I had forgotten early mornings existed with their lightly hued blue skys and birds singing glorious hymns… Heck, who am I kidding? The sky was grey, overcast, and if birds there were, they must have been as deep frozen as Birdseye, the sea captain’s famous food brand.

The highlight of the day was my attempt to learn the intricacies of Sweden grocery shopping. On my way home, I stopped at the nearby shopping center and stepped into Hemköp - pronounced Hemshop by the way. It looked much like any grocery store one might find in the Western world. Potatoes, a staple food here, are sold in bulk and customers are welcome to grab a small shovel and dig in various stacks of the tuber. Chorizo sold here is made in Denmark, Aalborg to be specific, but it didn’t refrain me from buying a pack. Chewing on a slice would certainly bring me back to Bull Rd. I managed to avoid linguistic mistakes by not reading any labels. I stocked up on local cheese and even a French bûche. As I left the grocery store, I felt happy I’d managed to handle that first experience smoothly.

Wednesday morning - of eventually reading the label correctly.

Fresh out of bed, I headed straight for the shower, grabbed the shampoo bottle I’d bought the previous night and started to lather it in. Only, it didn’t foam, it felt odd, and didn’t actually feel like shampoo. I glanced at the label. Fructis, yes so far so good. Normal hair. Yes, boring old hair. Only, in lieu of shampoo (which equates to schampo in Swedish), the label spelled out BALSAM which Google Translate later told me meant any of

1. BALSAM
2. BALM
3. SALVE
4. CONDITIONER

or possibly all of the above. I had managed to buy conditioner. Lord, I would have pulled my hair out at such stupid blindness. Even statistically if I picked a bottle at random in the hair care department, odds would be I would pick shampoo. There is bound to be more of that than conditioner, right? My ineptness, however, saw to it differently.

With half the week under my belt and no major mishap, I was ready to take on more of Stockholm and Sweden. Coming in the next episode, a visit down at the immigration office, drinks in Odenplan, an unwanted detour, and Sunday washing.

Without warning Sunday January 17th stormed in on Bull Rd and it was all too late to try to stay in Ipswich. Had I clung to Maria´s bedframe in a vain attempt to remain, the bed would have flown out to the cinque and buggered off to Stansted dragging me along. Change was indeed inevitable and the path to Stockholm was wide open.

My moving, rummaging, packaging was all but done. The last 2 boxes had been taped up so much they looked like Egyptian mummies at the British Museum. They were now idly waiting in the living room for the UPS man to come and pick them up. (to be continued…)

Next to the boxes, I had brought down my suitcase -  my faithful black Delsey that has followed me so far to all the countries I lived in - and my Quechua backpack suffering from a bad back after the two flat metal rods that are meant to sustain had been lost in action while being hurled on ‘yet another on-time flight’ by Ryanair. My room, my sacred sanctum, my alcove, my refuge was now an empty rectangular bit of space with sole ornament a clothes hanger on wheels, remnants of my once full closet. In the corner, my rolled-up sleeping bag was a reminder I would no longer camp here. It was time for Herr Gorena to take away my house keys.

Going without a final pint would have seemed inappropriate so Ruben and I headed out in his clunky cinque and we met with the chaps, the usual Spanish gang, at McGintys, the local Irish pub where we had seen many a rugby match and an unforgettable Confederations Cup semi-final which saw the USA cruise past the Invicible Armada of Spain. Tanya and I had celebrated that night! Over at the pub, we sipped a few pints and mingled with newly arrived teacher assistants from across Germany, France, and Spain. New faces taking over older ones. With an Adnams Broadside in my hand, Nick and I (2 of the 4 veteran musketeers) recollected long-gone memories of audacious nurses flirting with BT students from their top floor Pearson Rd apartments. Soon the pub shut down and we headed home after one last round of goodbyes, hugs, and forget-me-nots.

In our living room, Maria, Ruben, and I shared a few final thoughts before driving off to the Old Cattle Market where the Stansted-bound bus was waiting. A merrily inebriated Rebecca met us there for one last group hug. And then, after an elated Glaswegian bus driver had chucked my luggage in the bus’s hold and given chicken to Rubén, the bus drove off leaving Ipswich behind. It was 02:30AM on a dark Sunday dawn and as they say in Friends, it was the end of an era…

When I first got to Ipswich, my move was hectic and massively organized altogether. On the one hand, I had just returned to France quite laid back and relaxed with only a fortnight before my departure for Sleepy Suffolk. On the other, my dear mother, my very own Queen Mum, was breathing down my neck making sure I sorted out my suitcases and boxes.

I eventually filled a trunk up with books, clothing, bed covers and other items which I cannot think why I would ever want to bring them over to Ipswich. In my current move, I recently found the list of items I’d originally shipped and their weight. It is interesting to compare that with what I am now sending overseas.

• Empty trunk (black - it soon became famous in Ipswich as the dead man’s trunk for its sheer weight) - 7kg
• Yellow bag with bedsheets and towels - 3kg
• White shoebox with cables and charger - 1.5kg
• Creative 2.1 speakers SBS 350 - 3.1kg
• Javascript 1.3 book + another book on programming - 1.5kg
• Tall lamp - 4kg
• bedcover - 4kg
• bedspread - 3kg
• Squash racket + umbrella + gloves + woolly hats - 2kg
• “1…2…3″ bag with bedsheets - 2.5kg
• Oblong pillow - 2kg
• Set of 8 pants - 7kg
• Irish sweater - 1kg
• Mattress cover - 2kg
• Square pillow - 2kg
• 3 sweaters - 1.5kg
• Slippers - 1kg

The grand total was 47kg. In addition to that box which I air-shipped and got to my new house a day before I did, scaring the wits out of my housemates, I had a black Delsey suitcase, your normal sized one with mainly clothes and other sundry items which list I have unfortunately not kept.

I had also added at the last minute a small box containing my hi-fi, a blue coat (famously known as Bibendum for its resemblance to Michelin’s mascot), a grey raincoat, a beige summer jacket, a chess game, extra sweaters, posters, another lamp, and a Royals wall mat.

Today I look back at the list and wonder why I had the urge of taking 2 bed covers, enough bedsheets to equip an entire hotel (at least a 2-bedroom one), two lamps, and an umbrella. I must have truly though Ipswich would be dark, somber even, dreary, cold, and wet. I also wonder how I managed to fit so much into a minute 2 boxes.

My shipment to the Nordics required no less than 5 large boxes rescued from certain shredded death in a cardboard recycling skip at Tesco’s. During the first 2 weeks of 2010, our house resonated with the sound of the tape measure being pulled in and out, duct tape torn off and stuck onto the fortunate boxes, and the frenzied tearing of cardboard.

On January 6th, as Britain was brought to a freezing halt, UPS, the friendly shipping people in the unmistakable brown vans, took away the first two boxes and sent them on a waltz that saw them go to Bury St Edmunds, Barking, Herne-Boernig, Hamburg, Copenhagen, Malmo, and eventually Bromma.

This time the boxes contained what I deemed ‘vitals’: mainly clothes, my books, my DVD collection, and odd bits such as cocktails glasses Laurine had given me on our first Christmas together back in 2005. All in all, the shipment weight reached a whopping 130kg, three times the weight of the original shipment. And this is excluding the generous 30kg I can ship with Ryanair when I fly in the wee hours a most certainly frosty Essex dawn.

I cannot remember any longer the exact contents of either box I shipped. The printing on the outside are reminiscences of their previous lives when they harbored My Little Pony toys destined to be displayed on Tesco shelves and sold to parents anxious to please their little ones. I fear opening the boxes will be a bit like a Jack-in-the-box experience or perhaps a Forrest Gump Chocolates one where I simply never know what I’m going to get…

… 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…