Bloody 'ell. Spain is a Difficult Country, not just for us Plebs: In a text chat between Queen Letizia and one of the accused in a prominent corruption case, she offers her support and he complains that Spain is a very difficult place. For some more than others, it has to be said. I don't suppose Letizia has many problems. Well, apart from this one.
Spanish v British Hygiene: The Spanish tend to regard British houses as dirty. This is rather unfair. I, for one, haven't known a British woman any less fastidious than her Spanish counterpart. [I mention 'women' only because - unlike me - the majority of Spaniards still regard housework as women's duty. If I could get a male cleaner, I'd certainly have one]. Anyway, in one respect, at least, the Spanish are quite right to be disgusted. Given the propensity of men to - let's say - drip, it's surely daft to have a carpet, rather than tiles, in the bathroom.
New (to me) Spanglish: If you use a computer, I guess you can figure out what the verbs loguear and desloguear mean. And possibly even if you don't.
Proof of Identity in Spain: This is usually – and irritatingly frequently – done via one's ID card. Which is an NIE for foreign residents. Or, rather, things used to be. But a few years ago, the government decided to scrap our NIEs and give us a piece of green paper with our number on it, but no foto. In other words, useless. One needs to carry around something else, most obviously your passport(!) or possibly a Spanish driving licence. Anyway, I decided to test things at Santiago airport. Arriving at the desk, I gave the lady my A4 sheet, keeping my old (expired) NIE and passport for stages 2 and 3 of the anticipated argument. She was completely flummoxed by this. But, to my disappointment, she accepted my assurance that this was what the government issued to us these days, instead of an NIE. So, I was let through to the plane without any real 'proof' of identity. Fortunately, I'm not currently a terrorist and we arrived safely in Alicante. But food for thought, perhaps. Or concern.
Another Chapuza: Remember the Jesus who looked like an orang-utang? Well, here's a botch job involving the restoration of an old castle. As someone says: No words are necessary. You just need to look at the photographs. The Guardian goes to town on the story here, featuring both botches and the counter-claim that the castle restoration is a work of genius.
Finally . . . Our bins. All 4 of our large contenadores used be directly opposite my front gate - making things convenient but rather noisy in the early hours of the morning, back when they used to be emptied 5 nights a week. Then, bit by bit, they were moved 50m to the left. But still all in the same place. Then new plastic and organic bins were delivered and placed on the other side of the road from the paper and glass bins. But last week the glass bin was moved to a spot quite far away from the others. Meaning 3 separate sites. I now have a circuit of around 300m to make if I want to get rid of all the stuff piling up in my garage. But I gratefully assume the Poio town hall has done this in the interests of exercise and health. Can there be any other reason? Stupidity? I think not.
I'm down in Jávea, on the coast between Alicante and Valencia. Yesterday morning I went for a walk and quickly found what I was looking for . . .
Right next to this place . . . .
And not far from this place . . . Which serves the familiar Rogan Josh under the guise of Rogan Juice. Must try it . . .
Finally . . . I need sand to do a particular exercise for a thrice-sprained ankle. But this proved impossible on a beach comprising small boulders . . .
Fortunately, Jávea has 2 separate beaches and the other one is reputed to offer real sand. I'll be checking on this today.