Why I need to leave Spain. Immediately.

I need to leave Spain. Immediately.

It’s not that I don’t love it here. I do. It’s just that I can’t handle the pace.

Several months ago I posted a blog outlining my new average day as a writer. Since coming to Spain, it looks a little more like this (note that all times shown are approximate only, no guarantees are offered as to the accuracy of this information, I was under the influence of Sangria at the time of writing. It is definitely not an accurate reflection of today, 29 April 2011, as I spent all day either watching the Royal wedding, dreaming about being Pippa Middleton – gorgeous, fab dress, got to stand on the balcony, but doesn’t have to deal with Prince Charles leering at her over the Christmas turkey every year – or searching Google for Best and Worst Dressed at the Royal Wedding):

11am(ish): wake up, lie in bed to wait for church bells to ring to work out what the time is (secretly hoping it’s not later than noon, as that would be totally lazy).

Noon: head downstairs to make breakfast. Listen to neighbour yelling at two year old son. At least I think she’s yelling. Or she might just be Spanish. They’re quite animated.

12:30pm: shower. Even though I’m travelling on my own I do try to maintain some basic levels of hygiene.

1pm-8pm: any combination of writing, reading, walking, going to the beach to expose my white, flabby body on a beach overrun with gorgeous topless Spanish women, drinking bad coffee and other forms of general procrastination.

8pm: get ready to go out. This generally involves brushing my teeth.

9pm/10pm: eat dinner. Usually with Antonio, future Mayor of Vejer de la Frontera (another blog on that later) and anyone else he rounds up.

10:30pm: start acting like an 18 year old – drink a lot of cheap beer, do a lot of very bad dancing (which may or may not feature running man).

3/4/5am: eat Churros (to replenish sugar levels after strenuous dance activities). Stumble home to bed hoping I don’t get lost in the maze of white walled streets.

This may or may not be me drinking a
mojito at 4am.

It’s exhausting. Because I’m actually not 18 anymore, as much as I’m trying to act like it. That’s why I need to leave.

It all started last weekend with Easter. I scoured the supermarket shelves for even the smallest chocolate egg. Nothing. Not a chocolate egg, chocolate bilby, chocolate rabbit or Easter bonnet in sight. Because that’s not how the southern Spaniards celebrate Easter. They celebrate it with:

1. Roscos – basically a strip of bread dough twisted into a circle. Go crazy people.

2. A 24-hour street party. 

3. Letting a couple of bulls loose in the street. I joined the crowds on the street to watch, caught one look at the poor, startled bull, and scuttled off quickly to have another bad coffee, which suddenly seemed highly appealing.

Kids version of running with the bulls.
Much more my style.

One weekend of this kind of partying I could probably have handled. But then they followed it up with their annual Feria, which is like the Brisbane Exhibition only 10 times smaller with 10 times as many bars.

I feel a bit embarrassed to admit that I can’t handle the pace. Especially when last night I called it quits at 3am and had to push past hundreds of five-year-olds and all the people from the nursing home to get to bed. Honestly. The whole town comes out to party, and that’s what makes it so much fun. And I just can’t help but think that this would never happen in Australia, or Brisbane at least.

In Brisbane, if you had a child out at 3am in a place that served beer, you would be called an irresponsible parent (or at least a criminal, I think it might actually be illegal). If you also had a baby with you, asleep in its pram, someone would probably call child services. If you’re a single woman in a bar over the age of 30, people start making jokes that you’re a cougar. And if you look a day over 50, everyone’s wondering why you’re in a bar rather than sitting at home watching Antiques Roadshow.

Maybe it’s just Vejer, not all of Spain, but I think these people have it sussed. There’s no judgement. Just everyone having a bloody good time - and there’s something to be said about that.

Can I check your ID please boys?

It certainly explains why they need the siesta the next afternoon. And why you’re hard pressed to find an obese child in this place – they don’t scoff their faces with kilos of chocolate at Easter, instead they spend hours racing around the streets being chased by a boy pushing a bike adorned with a paper mache bulls head, and then they dance at the bars until the wee hours of the morning. Although I will say that a disproportionate amount of them appear to wear glasses, which I can only attribute to early exposure to bad strobe lighting.

But if I’m ever going to get this book written, I need to get the hell out of here. And soon. Besides, I doubt the people of Vejer can handle too many more nights of watching me attempt to do the Flamenco – while the ‘pick the apple, fight the bull’ strategy for my hands works a treat, I don’t think you’re supposed to do running man or MC Hammer moves with your feet. Just a wild guess.