Over-Thinking is Under-Rated

My friends have been trying to tell me for years that my over-thinking is holding me back. I have spent many sleepless nights considering the matter, and reached the conclusion that it’s not.

According to most Spaniards, though, “dejarme llevar” –going with the flow, should be the solution to most of my problems.

 “You’re reading too much into this, how about relaxing and going with the flow?”

To which I say: A la mierda with the flow! Dejarme llevar can go to hell. Whoever is asking my mind to relax clearly doesn’t know my mind.

People, meet my mind. Mind, meet people.

My mind does NOT fucking stop. Ever.

My mind is always on the lookout for genius ideas. My mind comes up with awesome theories. My mind finds strange connections and beautiful metaphors. 

My mind is brilliant.

My mind is a right bastard.

My mind hasn’t always got nice things to say to me. My mind expects the worst from people. My mind likes to argue with friends when they’re not even there. My mind is a spoilt brat that gets super active right around bed time. My mind even makes it a mission to ruin special occasions:

“-Hey Soph, how much was that massage?

-40€, Mind. Now shut the f*** up.

-40€ for 40 minutes? Well, 10 minutes must have gone by now, right? 15, even -who knows?  That’s like 15€, isn’t it?

…

-Soph, are you here? You must be nearly half way through by now. Are you feeling even half relaxed? You’re still looking tense. There isn’t much time left…

-Shut up mind.

-So you said 40€? How many hours do you have to work to afford this?

-Shut up mind.

-Oh, and on a different note… Do you think the masseuse cares that you haven’t shaved your legs?  I think she just flinched. Just saying.

-Mind, please go blank.

Blank

...

-Naaaaah, only joking! So, how long is left, do you think?"

So I’ll be honest with you. I gave up on keeping the bastard silent. I’ve chosen a different approach that I call cooperation. Learning to embrace it for what it is, but not let it mess around too much. I let it do its own thing most of the time. I try to keep it busy and distracted, so it doesn’t pick up fights with me or other people. I let it wander, or do what it does best: restlessly analyse everything. 
It’s a handful but so rewarding sometimes: you wouldn’t believe the things it comes up with! 
If it didn’t exit, I’d have to invent it. 

At times though, I just know better, so I make sure I don't let it control everything.

"Alright Mind, now shut up and let me sleep."

"Or... you could just write an awesome blog post about me."

Oh well. At least I try.

The Garden’s green, green grass

The Garden’s green, green grass

The other day, on my way to work, I bumped into a neighbour. “So you've got yourself a new job?” , he asked, and I went on and explained how I now work very long hours for little money, but at least I like what I do. 

“Well, that’s the way it always is. You just can’t have it all”. 

And I was going to agree, because this is what you do when people tell you standard clichéd bullshit; you just agree. But I just couldn't shut up, so I said the truth instead. 

“Bueno… You can have it all, actually. I used to.” 

And that’s true. I once had the perfect job. And now that I've said this, you’ll think this is a “grass is always greener on the other side” situation, which would be an appropriate metaphor, given my work place was called The Garden. You might choose not to believe me when I tell you that it is not the case. The thing is, I always knew it was the best job I’d ever had. I knew it before I even worked there, and I knew it when I applied for it, and I knew it when I first started, and the 20 months I worked there. I knew it the day they called me to say it was closing, and I still know it today, months after it shut down.  I'm not saying I never had bad days, that I never once complained about it and that every minute there was exciting and amazing. But I was always grateful and appreciative, because no matter how boring it becomes to work “the world’s best job”, well, it is your dream job after all and you’d be a fool to not appreciate it.

I didn't tell too many people at first. I thought I did not want compassion. But compassion is scarce these days, and I began craving a simple “Wow, that sucks”, instead of the bullshit I had to put up with. 

 “Something better will come along!” ,they said, one after the other, after I finally admitted to being jobless. 

“Everything happens for a reason”. 

“A little change is always good, you just wait and see”. 

And boy, did I wait, but let me tell you; I didn't see much at all. I saw job offers without legal contracts. I saw that other places pay a lot less to work in much worse conditions. And I saw that my money was running out and I’d better get a grip. So I found myself a new job, and here I am, back behind the reception desk, my new boss lighting cigarettes in my face, trying to convince me that working 36 hours straight really isn't so bad. 

And through the cloud of smoke and the smell of tobacco, I secretly think back to our Garden’s courtyard, its smell of jasmine and lemon blossom. And I wonder about the universe’s messed-up ways and that new-found cynicism of mine. 

And still, somehow, in all the bleakness, I'm happy to be working again anyway. I'm even happier than I thought I’d be, and it has me wonder why. Could it be this simple? That maybe, happiness is not about having it all. It’s about knowing things might get better. 

It’s about believing that this time, it is possible.

Jean-Pierre and the Premonition

Now that’s just too funny. Since I couldn't sleep, I opened my blog and read an old January post I wrote about French people being overly-practical (feel free to read narrow-minded) as they try to figure out why I moved to Spain.

I’ll admit that my reply:

“Non, Jean-Pierre, I did not move to the poorest part of Spain for job opportunities”

was a little exaggerated for literary purposes. At the time, that is.

Believe it or not, I actually had this exact conversation on Thursday night... with an actual Jean-Pierre from the Sud-Ouest! This is most likely a coincidence. Or, could it be that my blog has magical powers and can make simple statements a reality? I'm not exactly superstitious, but it’s worth giving it a shot. 

“Yes, handsome half-Dutch half Danish boy, you may buy me a mojito”.

So anyway, back to Thursday night, when Jean-Pierre was desperately trying to understand the situation. The first question is always WHY. 

“Why did you move to Spain?” 

One of the most accurate answers is actually “Why not” but it really does puzzle my people a lot so I tend to be a little more specific, just for the pleasure to confuse them even more.

“I was bored of England”, I tell them. 

This one never fails. Then, as an attempt to make some sense of my profoundly illogical decision, a long series of question inevitably ensues.

Was it for weeeeurk? Was it for a boy? Did you have friends ‘ere already? 

Non?? Mais euh, pourquoi alors?

From a logical French point of view, I had no reason to move to Seville. In my opinion, I had tons. For the sun, for the lifestyle, so that I could read on benches all year-long. Because it wasn't for work, or for friends, or for a boy. Because I like myself here. Because I felt like it. Because it was fate.

There’s only so much words can say though, so sometimes, I just point around, and Thursday night was a good night to do so; we were guests at a lovely couple’s private caseta at the Feria, dancing and drinking manzanilla. So I hope Jean-Pierre got it. I'm here because it’s a not a bad life. 

It’s not a bad life at all.  

                                      Look around you Jean-Pierre. That's why! 

The Things I Want to Want to Do.

I'm sorry, I can’t do it.

Actually, I can. I just won’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I have done things. I went on walking tours, to convents and to Semana Santa concerts. I went skiing in Sierra Nevada. I signed up for cooking classes, sevillana lessons, photography courses. I took the required selfies and mental notes of what I could write about.    

                   Smile for the camera.          Think of funny stories.

Guess what though? I couldn't make fun happen.

I thought this was the challenge I needed to keep going. I was wrong.  My heart isn't in it. I'm done with life-changing challenges right now. Just like that gym pass I got a couple of months ago. I’d go home and look at the stupid magnetic bracelet calling me from across the room. “Gooooo to the gyyyym!”, it would say, trying to guilt me into it. 

“You won’t make me!”, I would shout back –internally, obviously, I haven’t reached that level of crazy. I didn't go to the gym last month. 

Not once.

I do want to do fun stuff. I also want to write sometimes, but I want to do it the right way.

I want to want to do stuff.

I want to want to write.

I want the awesome photos to be of truly awesome moments. The fun stories to be about actual fun stuff.

Maybe it’s about reinventing the approach. Or maybe I don’t want to find another approach just yet. In truth, I hope the approach finds itself.

Meanwhile, no more challenges, no more guilt traps; I cancelled my gym membership.

The bracelet however, is still in the living room, by the television. I look at it sometimes. I'm looking at it at this very moment. 
                            “Who’s laughing now, eh?”.

Thing #1: Sevilla FC for Dummies

“My knowledge of football is just ridiculous”, my Irish friend Oisin said over cake and the spinach milkshake that tastes slightly strange but makes him feel healthy.

“Don’t worry, so is mine”, I laughed. Turned out he meant “Ridiculously good”.  I stopped laughing.

When I came up with the idea of 52 Things, I knew a football game would have to be in the cards. It’s hard to talk about Spain and Andalusia and ignore most people’s favourite sport.  So I told Oisin about my plan and he suggested we got tickets for the following week. Sevilla FC would be playing in the Cup quarter finals. 

“What are the cup quarter finals?” I had to ask. 

“Well, you know, what comes before the semi-finals”. 

“Is that to do with the League?” 

He sighed. It was clear I’d have to do a little research.

As you may have guessed by now, not only is my football knowledge ridiculously bad, but I have also very little interest in the whole thing. I don’t support any team in particular, I just support good atmosphere.  I’ll watch a game only if the country in which I am at that moment is playing, with the exception of England, who is way too crazy about their football. Obviously, in the 8 years I was living there, I did attend some games at first. I’d even gone as far as buying the official shirt and flag. However, I started having second thoughts the day I nearly got hit by a chair inside the pub, one time that Beckham missed his penalty.

Up until last week, I’d only been to one live football game in my life:

 “Barcelona-Real Madrid, Supercopa 2012,”

I would tell people, and then pause for effect.

It never failed.

Most people also agreed: any game I would watch after this would just fail to compare. Bearing that in mind, I started preparing for the cup quarter finals. Surely, even if my interest in the sport was limited, there should be some fun facts to learn.

So I read about the difference between the Cup and the European League. I learnt that Sevilla FC is one of the oldest clubs in Spain, and it was originally made up of only British players. Hence the FC for “Football Club” instead of CF “Club de Fútbol”.  I also learnt that Sánchez Pizjuán –the stadium, has a capacity of 45.000, over half that of Camp Nou and that Spain as a national team has never once lost a game there.

Interesting facts stop here.

"How about the anthem?" I asked Oisin as he slowly sipped his green beverage. I was wondering if it would be best to learn the lyrics. The new hymn was such a hit when it came out 10 years ago, that it topped the charts and took over the old one. The fans chant it at the opening of every game.

“Laaaaa, la la la la”, Oisin sang upon request, as low as possible in case we were surrounded by Betis fans. 

Real Betis is Sevilla’s favourite enemy. As part of my research project, I also read a lot of Sevilla-Betis jokes, but the ones I understood were so bad that I wouldn't dare to mention them here. We wouldn't want to ruin such a serious and well-informed article, right?

This takes us to Thursday evening, just minutes before the game. I met Oisin outside the stadium. All tickets were sold out which meant he could only get row 1 tickets across from the cameras, which also meant we might be on TV. 

“I suppose that’s good for the blog if we are”.  I don’t really like to appear on TV, but you have to stay practical.

As it turned out, row 1 wasn’t actually the first row, but we were still really close to the pitch and to the “Biris” to our right. 

“They’re the ultras” Oisin explained. 

“The Ultras?”  I hadn’t read about those. 

“Ultra fanatical supporters”.  Or, as I would put it, they’re the crazy ones that sing the loudest.  Their repertory is endless and they never tire to jump up and down. The good thing is that you only need to know a few words to be able to sing along. I actually believe I now have the knowledge necessary to write a “Singing at Football Games for Dummies” manual book.

Take this one for example, a tribute to a dead local player. You sing it just like “Can’t take my eyes of off you” but instead of “I love you baby and if it’s quite alright…”, you replace it by the guy’s name:

“Antonio Puerta, lalalalala, Antonio Puerta”. Very easy.

 Actually, as a general rule, if you ever forget the lyrics, you can replace anything by either lololo, lalala or oe oe oe. Even the Biris do it. Or perhaps they haven’t quite found the right rhyme yet. These things may take time for all I know.

Most other canticos sevillistas also use the melody of other songs such as “Guantanamera” (just replace the original lyrics by “Blanca y roja”, the team colours) or, the biggest surprise of the day… the French anthem.

Now, I am not one to sing my national anthem unless I really must. But since it turns out that the fans have borrowed the entire melody of the Marseillaise and changed only the lyrics, I found myself happily singing along. For this one, the rule is, instead of “Aux armes citoyens”, you say “Oe, Sevilla oe”.  I filled the blanks by I singing in French and I was the first one surprised.

45 minutes later, after an unconvincing first half, the score was still 0-0 but I had learnt a few things. Namely that sitting by a barrier is fun if you intend to bang on it, but less so if you want to lean your knees against it; that the huevos the fans are singing about are not eggs but testicles ( the motto “Échale Huevos” is not part of the instructions for a Spanish tortilla recipe  but rather some manly advice to “Give it some Balls”), and, last but not least, that a football stadium is one of the only places on earth where the queue for the ladies is shorter than the men’s. The latter, we overheard, was “peor que el paro”-worse than at the job centre. Trust me, in Andalucía, that’s saying a lot.

As a football illiterate, one of the things I struggle with at live games is following the action without the comments from the TV. Mind you, I could never understand what the guy was saying, but the tone of voice used is usually a good indication of the level of excitement I’m supposed to be feeling. 

This is why, in the very last minute of Thursday’s game, I found myself cluelessly looking at the sky and missed an impressive goal by Sevilla FC. Some things you can teach yourself with Wikipedia, others though, you find out through experience and mistakes. Lesson learnt.

Sadly, the one goal wasn't enough to stay in the championship. It’s not all over, tough… there’s still the Liga. That’s the thing with football, there’s always some tournament of some sort just to annoy the rest of us wanting to have a quiet evening in without having to hear the neighbour shout and cry across the patio.

Did I enjoy the game though? Very much so. As to whether it compared to the experience at Camp Nou… You guessed it: not even close. 

So what now, I hear you wonder? Well, while I'm not planning on standing in a stadium again in the near future, I wouldn't pass up a really good opportunity either. 

That way, maybe, while the men on the pitch gather the huevos to score, my personal goal will be to actually not miss any.

52 Things I Did When I Moved to Spain

After the complete failure at keeping the promises made in my last article, I had to seriously consider deleting the entire post and save myself the embarrassment. Instead, I have decided to face up to my defeat and overcome it by attempting something bigger.

Vamos a ver.

“Did you move ‘ere for weeeeeurk?”  is a question I commonly get asked by career-obsessed French people.

"Non, Jean-Pierre, I did not move to the poorest part of Spain for job opportunities. Would you?"

People in their right mind settle in Andalucía for the weather and the promise of a relaxed, yet more exciting life.

“So what’s it like to live in Seville”, the rest of my backpacking customers always want to know, “What do you do in your spare time? Eat tapas? Learn flamenco? Watch bullfights?”

I tell them, “Yes, yes, and YES.”

Does that sound cliché to you? It certainly does to me. 

I'm finally leading the life that people think they’d have if they moved to Spain. The life I thought I might have when I first stepped out of the plane and looked around at the orange trees and blue sky two years ago. It’s taken time to get there, and I’ll even admit that at times, I have been focussing a little too much on the “relaxed” lifestyle rather than the “exciting” side of it.

My mistake.

In order to spice things up this year, I have set myself some new goals and I am proud to announce my new personal challenge for 2015:

“52 Things I Did when I Moved to Spain”.

The rules are simple. I must do one thing a week and then write about it. Along the way, I intend to explore Andalucía’s clichés and traditions while trying to stay off the beaten path. I’ll keep doing the things I like, do the things I should have done a long time ago, and some others I haven’t even thought of yet. In other words, more surfing, more traveling and… who knows what else? One thing is sure: I can’t wait to actually find out.

Que Empiece la Aventura!

Introducing The August Experiment

I guess the whole idea behind writing a blog on Spanish Life is that someone somewhere learns something about living in Spain.  

I am sorry that this has not been the case.

The truth is that I would like to write more often but I'm scared of writing about daily life and sounding boring or self-important. Still, today, I have decided to try something new.

 I will stop writing about big stuff and try to tell you more about the little things that make Spanish life what it is. I might add a few bad-quality pictures for good measure and see how that goes.  This will be an experiment. 
I shall call it The August Experiment.  

Before I go any further, you should know that I am not promising you will learn much about Spain. You see, in order for me to teach you anything on the subject, I would have to understand it myself. What I do promise is to try my best to tell you what it’s like to live somewhere for 18 months and still feel clueless on a daily basis. In there somewhere, I hope you feel the magic I have found, being lost somewhere beautiful.